He was quite well satisfied, moreover, to avoid any further discussion of the manner in which the cows had “escaped” the night before, for a more utterly wingless set of quadrupeds were never accused of flying.
As for his mother, good soul, Zeb had small fears of any trouble there, as soon as she should be sure that he had suffered no real injury.
Good Mrs. Fuller, the meekest soul in Ogleport, had come of sound “revolutionary” stock, and the deacon himself would have been more surprised than Zeb was at the real character of the “scolding” she gave him.
“You couldn’t help it, Zeb?”
“Not without giving up the cows.”
“Sure there was no other way but to fight those boys? I wouldn’t have had to.”
“You’d have had to let ’em drive the cows to the pound, then.”
“You thought you were doing your duty, then, Zeb?”
“Yes, mother,” said Zeb, firmly. “It was my fault that the cows got away, and so it was my duty to bring ’em back again.”
“Oh, Zeb! More of your mischief? I’m sorry for that, and I’m sorry you had to fight.”