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And so the story went on. All the wholesome things of the country that children like had come from one and another. And each had been as happy in giving as Billy could possibly be in receiving. “What a funny word! What do you mean?” “You don’t want to see your mother now, do you, boy? No more do you feel like jabbering with Bess at our table. Come over to the hotel, and we’ll lunch together.”.

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Before they turned into Main Street, however, the procession was in fair alignment, and the solemnity of the moment hushed all chatter. Billy’s most personal disappointment was Bouncer, who, unhappy because he could not caper in freedom at Billy’s heels, let his lovely, bushy tail, that usually waved above his back in a graceful curve, hang limp and dusty between his legs; while from drooping head and sad eyes, he looked reproachfully at Billy every time the latter ran past. “Shame on you Moses, rampagin’ an’ bellerin’ there like a gang of coyotes,” remonstrated his mother. They were a happy lot. Each held some high-sounding position, the name coined in Billy’s busy brain. His box of abused tools came forth; the much mended wheelbarrow, picks, shovels wobbly from use as well as abuse, improvised things that only an imagination as large as Billy’s could have named tools,—something for each one there. “Say, fellows, business now, and no questions asked. There’s a hitch on the stage. Storm, wrap that cloak round you—don’t wait for fixings—and get to your place in the wings, quick! When I say ‘Go,’ take Rain’s hand, crouch low, run to the centre, and between you yank that snow tank off the stage. Sabe?”.