They ran straight for it, and the ram was so close on Charley Farrington's heels when he reached it that there was nothing left for Charley but a long jump. Well for him that he was a good jumper on a run, and he landed three feet beyond the well, while the other four were dodging around it.
Where was the ram?
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"
Either he had begun his leap too soon, or he had not made it long enough, for it had carried him with great accuracy to the very middle of the old well, and his piteous voice was now coming up from just above the surface of the water at the bottom.
"Beecher's lost his prize mutton."
"Hear him! Oh, but doesn't he feel bad!"
"He isn't drowning, anyhow."
"Not exactly drowning, but it's an awful cold bath."
"Boys," said Put Boswell, "we must get him out. Old Chittenden'll be sure to find out that we fellows were up here, and they'd lay it all to us."
"They lay pretty much everything to us now," remarked Dan Martin. "But how'll we ever work it? Put, you go down and lift him up, while we get hold of him. You ain't afraid of a sheep, are you?"