"He's going for the barn-yard gate, too," said Rube. "Punch him, Bun. We'll train him in the barn-yard."
Jeff was holding the gate open, but he was also shouting loudly at the other pigs, and it was an open question—as wide open as the gate itself—whether or not all three of them would not soon be at work in the garden. Very likely they would have been but for Bun's presence of mind in getting into the wagon. That puzzled the speckled pig, and the sharp stick made it worse for him. He saw the open gate, and he made a desperate rush for it. There was a deep drain furrow just before he reached it, and Bun was thinking, "He can't pull me over that," when the fore-wheels went down into it. The pig uttered the loudest squeal he had squealed all that morning as he struggled forward. The three women shouted in one breath, "Oh, Bun!"
Rube Hollenhauser stooped down to pick up a stone, and Bun punched harder than ever; but the pig had the best of it. That harness had not been calculated for any such strain. There was a faint snap, then another, and the pig was free.
He did not pause to look back at the garden he had lost, but he dashed wildly through the open gate, and Jeff banged it shut after him.
"Mother," said Bun, "I believe I can train him to draw."
"Draw?" exclaimed Aunt Dorcas. "He draws well enough now. The trouble is to steer him. What'll your father say to that garden?"
"I'll tell him my 'horse' ran away," said Bun.
"Well," said his mother, "don't you bring him into this yard again. Do your pig-training on the pigs' side of the fence. Come, now; it's time you went on your errand."
"Come on, Rube," remarked Bun. "We'll see about a better harness."
"May I go too?" asked Jeff. "I'm all scratched up."