for she remembered how Flossie had once told her the same thing.
“Oh, Freddie, are you sure?” she asked.
“Sure,” repeated the little fellow. “But it wasn’t very good playing.”
Mrs. Bobbsey called Uncle Daniel, and the latter lit a lamp and went below into the parlor. Nobody was at the piano or in the room.
“I’ve made a careful examination,” he said, on coming back. “I can see nothing unusual. Some of the children left a piece of cake on the keys of the piano, that’s all.”
“Well, cake can’t play,” put in Freddie. “Maybe it was a ghost.”
“No, you must have been dreaming,” said his mother. “Come, go to sleep,” and presently Freddie dropped off. Mrs. Bobbsey was much worried, and the next day the older folks talked the matter over; but nothing came of it.
CHAPTER XII
Tom’s Runaway
“Tom Mason is going to bring his colt out this afternoon,” said Harry to Bert, “and we can all take turns trying him.”
“Oh, is it that pretty little brown horse I saw in the field back of Tom’s home?” asked Bert.
“That’s him,” Harry replied. “Isn’t he a beauty!”
“Yes, I would like first-rate to ride him, but young horses are awful skittish, aren’t they?”
“Sometimes, but this one is partly broken. At any rate, we wouldn’t have far to fall, for he is a little fellow,” said Harry.
So the boys went down to Tom’s home at the appointed time, and there they met Jack Hopkins.
“We’ve made a track around the fields,” Tom told his companions, “and we will train him to run around the ring, for father thinks he may be a race-horse some day, he’s so swift.”
“You may go first,” the boys told him, “as he’s your horse.”
“All right!” Tom replied, making for the stake where Sable, the pony, was tied. Sable marched along quietly enough and made no objections to Tom getting on his back. There was no saddle, but just the bit in the horse’s mouth and attached to it a short piece of rein.
“Get app, Sable!” called Tom, snapping a small whip at the pony’s side.
But instead of going forward the little horse tried to sit down!
“Whoa! whoa!” called the boys, but Tom clung to Sable’s neck and held on in spite of the pony’s back being like a toboggan slide.
“Get off there, get off there!” urged Tom, yet the funny little animal only backed down more.
“Light a match and set it under his nose,” Harry suggested. “That’s the way to make a balky horse go!”
Someone had a match, which was lighted and put where Sable could sniff the sulphur.
“Look out! Hold on, Tom!” yelled the boys all at once, for at that instant Sable bolted off like a deer.
“He’s running away!” called Bert, which was plain to be seen, for Tom could neither turn him this way or that, but had all he could do to hold on the frightened animal’s neck.
“If he throws him Tom will surely be hurt!” Harry exclaimed, and the boys ran as fast as they could across the field after the runaway.
“Whoa! whoa! whoa!” called everybody after the horse, but that made not the slightest difference to Sable, who just went as if the woods were afire. Suddenly he turned and dashed straight up a big hill and over into a neighbor’s cornfield.
“Oh, mercy!” cried Harry, “those people are so mean about their garden, they’ll have Tom arrested if there’s any corn broken.”
Of course it was impossible for a runaway horse to go through a field of corn and do no damage, and Tom realized this too. By this time the dogs were out barking furiously, and altogether there was wild excitement. At one end of the field there was a high board fence.
“If I could only get him there he would have to stop,” thought Tom, and suddenly he gave Sable a jerk in that direction.
“Drop off, Tom, drop off!” yelled the boys. “He’ll throw you against the fence!”
But at that minute the little horse threw himself against the boards in such a way that Tom slid off, yet held tightly to the reins.
The horse fell, quite exhausted.
As quickly as they could get there the boys came up to help Tom.
“Hurry!” said Harry, “there is scarcely any corn broken, and we can get away before the Trimbles see us. They’re away back in the fields planting late cabbage.”
Tom felt hardly able to walk, but he limped along while Harry led Sable carefully between the cornhills. It was only a few feet to the edge of the field, and then they were all safe on the road again.
“Are you hurt?” the boys asked Tom, when finally they had a chance to speak about the runaway.
“I feel as if I had dropped from a balloon onto a lot of cobblestones,” Tom answered, “but I guess that’s only the shaking up I got. That pony certainly can go.”
“Yes indeed,” Harry admitted; “I guess he doesn’t like the smell of sulphur matches. Lucky he was not injured with that fall against the fence.”
“I found I had to throw him,” Tom said, “and I thought the fence was softer than a tree.”
“I suppose we ought to make him run until he is played out,” said Bert, “That’s the way to cure a horse of running away.”
But none of the boys felt like risking their bones even to cure Sable, so the panting animal was led to the stable and for the rest of the day allowed to think over his bad conduct.
But that was not the last of the runaway, for in the evening just after supper old Mr. Trimble paid a visit to Tom’s father.
“I came over to tell you what a scallywag of a boy you’ve got,” began the cross old man. “He and a lot of young loafers took a horse and drove him all through my cornfield today, and now you’ve got to pay the damages.”
“My son is not a scallywag,” Mr. Mason declared, “and if you call him names like loafer and scallywag I’ll make you pay damages.”
“Oh! you will, eh?” the other sneered. “Think I’m afraid of an old constable up here, do you?”
“Well now, see here,” Mr. Mason said, “Be reasonable and do not quarrel over an accident. If any corn is knocked down I’ll get Tom to fix it up, if it’s broken down we will see what it would cost to replace it. But the boys did not do it purposely, and it was worse for Tom than anyone else, for he’s all black and blue from the hard knocks he got.”
At this the cross man quieted down and said, Well, he would see about it. Mr. Trimble was one of those people who believe all a boy is good for is doing mischief and all a boy deserves is scolding or beating. Perhaps this was because he had no sons of his own and therefore had no regard for the sons of other people.
Mr. Mason went directly to the cornfield with his neighbor. He looked carefully over every hill, and with a spade and hoe he was able to put back into place the few stalks that had been knocked down in Sable’s flight.
“There now,” said Mr. Mason, “I guess that corn is as good as ever. If it wants any more hoeing Tom will come around in the morning and do it. He is too stiff to move tonight.”
So that ended the runaway, except for a very lame boy, Tom Mason, who had to limp around for a day or two from stiffness.
“How would you like to be a jockey!” laughed his companions. “You held on like a champion, but you were not in training for