his sobriquet and lost him his tail, it was Tom's
quickness of hand alone that saved the remainder of his kidship from
disappearing as his tail had done. Indeed, she not only choked the dog
who attacked him, until he loosened his hold from want of breath, but
she threw him over the stable-yard fence as an additional mark of her
displeasure.

In spite of her fear of him, Tom never dispossessed Stumpy. That her
Patsy loved him insured him his place for life.

So Stumpy roamed through yard, kitchen, and stable, stalking over
bleaching sheets, burglarizing the garden gate, and grazing wherever he
chose.

The goat inspired no fear in anybody else. Jennie would chase him out
of her way a dozen times a day, and Cully would play bullfight with him,
and Carl and the other men would accord him his proper place, spanking
him with the flat of a shovel whenever he interfered with their daily
duties, or shying a corn-cob after him when his alertness carried him
out of their reach.

This afternoon Jennie had missed her blue-checked apron. It had been
drying on the line outside the kitchen door five minutes before. There
was no one at home but herself, and she had seen nobody pass the door.
Perhaps the apron had blown over into the stable-yard. If it had, Carl
would be sure to have seen it. She knew Carl had come home; she had been
watching for him through the window. Then she ran in for her shawl.

Carl was rubbing down the Big Gray. He had been hauling ice all the
morning for the brewery. The Gray was under the cart-shed, a flood of
winter sunlight silvering his shaggy mane and restless ears. The Swede
was scraping his sides with the currycomb, and the Big Gray, accustomed
to Cully's gentler touch, was resenting the familiarity by biting at the
tippet wound about the neck of the young man.

Suddenly Carl raised his head--he had caught a glimpse of a flying apron
whipping round the stable door. He knew the pattern. It always gave him
a lump in his throat, and some little creepings down his back when he
saw it. Then he laid down the currycomb. The next instant there came a
sound as of a barrel-head knocked in by a mixing-shovel, and Stumpy
flew through the door, followed by Carl on the run. The familiar bit of
calico was Jennie's lost apron. One half was inside the goat, the other
half was in the hand of the Swede.

Carl hesitated for a moment, looked cautiously about the yard, and
walked slowly toward the house, his eyes on t