“I am positive that all things were in order when I retired,” was the response.
“Then there’s only one way they could have got out,” said Zeb.
“What’s that?” asked the deacon.
“Flying,” said Zeb; “and, not being used to it they flew further than they meant to.”
Effie Dryer came to the relief of her puzzled elders with a burst of girlish merriment, in which George Brayton, though more reservedly, was willing enough to join her; but her father’s countenance was full of stern reproof of both her and Zeb.
“You are too much disposed to trifle, my young friend,” he said to the latter. “You have done me a very excellent service, for which I thank both you and your worthy father. I regret exceedingly the apparent necessity of a resort to violence. You have evidently suffered severe contusions.”
“But, Doctor!” exclaimed Zeb, “you ought to have seen those two Rodney chaps. My face isn’t a sign to their’n. And then their dog! Bob had him down for close on to five minutes. You’d have enjoyed it as well as I did if you’d only been there. Ask Mr. Brayton. He missed the best of it, though.”
“I must say,” said the gentleman appealed to, “that Zeb had evidently done his whole duty by his opponents, and his dog had left nothing to ask for on his part. Zeb, hadn’t you better go home and wash your face?”
“Yes, Zeb,” exclaimed his father, “and tell your mother about it and take care of the bay colt.”
Zeb was glad enough to get away, for he was becoming conscious that Effie Dryer’s merry eyes had discovered something absurd and laughable in his appearance, and he was by no means “hardened” enough to stand that.