"We've got him now, unless his horns come off," shouted Abe Larrabee. "He's safe."
In the bottom of a well, and fastened by his horns to five boys and a fence rail, there was not a particle of danger that Beecher's prize ram would get away. The problem yet to be solved was at least as deep as the old well, nevertheless, and there was no telling how soon Mr. Beecher or Deacon Chittenden might put in an appearance.
"It's got to be done," said Put. "We can't leave an unfortunate fellow-creature in such a fix as that. Let's haul on the rope over the rail, and see how far we can draw him."
There were a good many experiments tried, hand running, and every boy had had his turn, sitting on the fence rails in the middle, and studying the ram after he had been let down again. It was beginning to look a little dark for him, when something put it into the head of Charley Farrington to grasp the rope tight at the rail where it was hitched, and swing down a little, with his feet on the projecting stones of the rude siding.
It was too bad for Dan Martin and Jim Chandler to get up from the rails to come and see what he was doing, for the one with the rope wound around it began to turn, with Charley's weight to turn it, and in five seconds more he was standing at the bottom of the well, by the side of what Put had called his "unfortunate fellow-creature."
"Boys! boys! pull me up."
"You're the man for me," responded Put Boswell, for it was plain no harm had been done. "That's just the thing. Now we'll haul on the ram, at the broken side, and we'll get him up. There's just slant enough, if you'll boost him behind and get him started. Is the water very warm?"
"Hurry up, then. It's cold as ice. I'll shove him."
"Ba-a-a-a-a! ba-a!"
"Don't those two feel bad?" unfeelingly remarked Abe Larrabee. "Let's hurry, boys. Charley's all right. He's a brick, too."