“Yes. I could find no other. I—I thought perhaps you—that perhaps that sheep had came back; don’t you see?”
“Sheep? Sheep do not climb trees, Middleton.”
“Well, I am glad to know there is some one thing that it could not do. I would readily believe it could climb, Pettingill.”
“How did you happen to pick this tree?” I asked.
“I claim no credit whatever, Pettingill. As the sheep came out of the gate, one of them struck me very, very abruptly. I landed outside the fence, where I tried to conceal myself, but it searched until it found me, and each time I tried to get up it knocked me down. From there to this tree was just a succession of hard knocks.”
“That is really too bad,” I replied. “I am physically imperfect myself, Middleton. I think there is nothing more that could hurt me. Have you a comfortable seat up there, Middleton?”
“Wouldn’t use it if I had!” he actually grunted at me. “Right at present I am hanging over a bough like a carpet on a line. Pettingill, I may never, never sit down again.”
We cheered each other as much as possible through the long night, and were truly grateful when morning came. Looking at Middleton gave me a faint idea of my own appearance. He had neither shirt nor hat, and the upper part of his body was streaked with blood and dirt. His limbs were so stiff he could hardly walk, and mine were little better.
I still retained my hat, although the crown would open and shut in the breeze. We wished for the coats we had left at our camp. Then we walked in what might be the right direction, and suddenly came to a road. Not a well traveled thoroughfare, it is true, but at least a roadway. Along this we limped for a while, when we heard the creaking of a wagon behind us.
“Just suppose there should be some ladies aboard,” suggested Middleton, and we hastily crouched down beside some bushes.