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“It’s a dark outlook here for the young gentleman,” said Carlstrom. “The horse’s wind is broken.” A stretch of good going gave them time for a little reflection. Bob busied himself with thoughts of a possible dam site. It seemed queer to him that Jerry had appeared to take no interest in the canyon for this purpose. “Golly!” almost whispered Bob, awed by the strangeness of the scene. “I reckon this is why no one came through. There doesn’t seem to be any way to get out—”.

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Johnny Blossom stood and stared. For his part he would rather have his own mug at home with “For a Good Boy” upon it than all these fine antiques that so many old mouths had drunk from! Johnny Blossom hastened to get Mother’s sharpest scissors—the big shiny ones—for he intended to cut some long strips of stout cloth to tie the goat’s legs with. Johnny cut and cut. Suddenly the big blades slipped, caught Johnny’s little finger, and before he knew it, had cut the tip of it clean off! It hurt awfully—oh, well—not so terribly after all; but my, oh, my! how it bled! Johnny Blossom bound his not over-clean handkerchief around it, but still the blood came. Now it was all over his trousers. Perhaps he had better hide until it stopped. Indeed, they wouldn’t go into the water! Oh, the horrid little goat! “At last! I thought you’d never show up.”.