Ruth Fielding and the Gypsies Part 7

Ruth had tied the leg firmly with her own handkerchief--which was of practical size. "If we could put it in splints, and keep the lamb still, it would mend," she declared to Helen.

"What do you consider the thing worth, sir?" asked Tom.

"Four dollars," declared the farmer, promptly. It was not worth two, even at the present price of lamb, for the creature was neither big nor fat.

"Here you are," said Tom, and thrust four one-dollar notes into his hand.

The man stared at them, and from them to Tom. He really seemed disappointed. Perhaps he wished he had said more, when Tom did not haggle over the price.

"Wal, I'll take it along to the house then," said the farmer. "An' when ye come this road ag'in, young man, ye better go a leetle slow--yaas, a leetle slow!"

"I certainly shall--as long as you have gaps in your sheep pasture fence," returned Tom, promptly.

"Git out'n the way, leetle gal," said the man, brus.h.i.+ng Ruth aside.

"I'll take him----"

The lamb struggled to get on its feet. The sudden appearance of the man frightened the animal.

"Stop that!" cried Ruth. "You'll hurt the poor thing."

"I'll knock him in the head, when I git to the chopping block," said the farmer, roughly. "Shucks! it's only a lamb."

"Don't you dare!" Ruth cried, standing in front of the quivering creature. "You are cruel."

"Hoity-toity!" cried the farmer. "I guess I kin do as I please with my own."

Helen clung to Ruth's hand and tried to draw her away from the rough man. Even Tom hesitated to arouse the farmer's wrath further. But the girl from the Red Mill stamped her foot and refused to move.

"Don't you dare touch it!" she exclaimed. "It isn't your lamb."

"What's that?" he demanded, and then broke into a hoa.r.s.e laugh. "Thet thar's a good one! I raised thet lamb----"

"And we have just bought it--paid you your own price for it," cried Ruth.

"Crickey! that's so, Ruthie," Tom Cameron interposed. "Of course he doesn't own it. If you want the poor thing, we'll take it along to Fred Larkin's place."

"Say!" exclaimed the farmer. "What does this mean? I didn't sell ye the carca.s.s of thet thar lamb; I only got damages----"

"You sold it. You know you did," Ruth declared, firmly. "I dare you to touch the poor little thing. It is ours--and I know its life can be saved."

"Pick it right up, girls, and come on," advised Tom, starting his engine. "We have the rights of it, and if he interferes, we'll just run on to the next town and bring a constable back with us. I guess we can call upon the authorities, too. What's sauce for the goose, ought to be sauce for the gander."

The man was stammering some very impolite words, and Tom was anxious to get his sister and Ruth away. The girls lifted the lamb in upon the back seat and laid it tenderly upon some wraps. Then the boy leaped into the front seat and prepared to start.

"I tell ye what it is!" exclaimed the farmer, coming close to the car.

"This ain't no better than highway robbery. I never expected ter have ye take the carca.s.s away, when I told ye sich a low price----"

"I have paid its full value, and you don't own a thread of its wool, Mister," said Tom, feeling the engine throb under him now. "I'm going to start----"

"You wait! I ain't got through with you----"

Just then the car started. The man had been holding to the end of the seat. He foolishly tried to continue his hold.

The car sprang ahead suddenly, the farmer was swung around like a top, and the last they saw of him he was sitting in the middle of the dusty road, shaking both fists after the car, and yelling at the top of his voice. Just what he said, it was perhaps better that they did not hear!

"Wasn't he a mean old thing?" cried Tom, when the car was purring along steadily.

"And wasn't Ruth smart to see that he had no right to this poor little sheep?" said Helen, admiringly.

"What you going to do with it, Ruthie?" demanded Tom, glancing back at the lamb. "Going to sell it to a butcher in Littletop? That's where Fred Larkin's folk live, you know."

"Sell it to a butcher!" exclaimed Ruth, in scorn. "That's what the farmer would have done--butchered it."

"It is the fate of most sheep to be turned into mutton," returned Tom, his eyes twinkling.

"And then the mutton is turned into boys and girls," laughed Ruth. "But if I have my way, this little fellow will never become either a Cameron, or a Fielding."

"Oh! I wouldn't want to eat him--after seeing him hurt," cried Helen.

"Isn't he cunning? See! he knows we are going to be good to him."

"I hope he knows it," her chum replied. "After all, it doesn't take much to a.s.sure domestic animals of our good intentions toward them."

"Well," said Tom, grinning, "I promise not to eat this lamb, if you make a point of it, but if I don't get something to eat pretty soon, I a.s.sure you he'll be in grave danger!"

They made Littletop and the Larkins' residence before Tom became too ravenous, however; and the younger members of the Larkin family welcomed the adventurers--including the lamb--with enthusiasm.

Fred Larkin had some little apt.i.tude for medicine and surgery--so they all said, at least--and he set the broken leg and put splints upon it.

Then they put the little creature in one of the calf pens, fed it liberally, and Fred declared that in ten days it would be well enough to hop around.

The little Larkin folk were delighted with the lamb for a pet, so Ruth knew that she could safely trust her protege to them.

There was great fun that night, for the neighboring young folk were invited to meet the trio from Cheslow and the Red Mill, and it was midnight before the girls and boys were still. Therefore, there was no early start made for the second day's run.

Breakfast was late, and it was half-past nine before Tom started the car, and they left Littletop amid the cheers and good wishes of their friends.

"We must hustle, if we want to get to Uncle Ike's before dark," Tom declared. "So you will have to stand for some scorching, girls."

"See that you don't kill anything--or even maim it," advised his sister.

"You are out four dollars for damages already."

"Never you mind. I reckon you girls won't care to be marooned along some of these wild roads all night."

"Nor to travel over them by night, either," advised Ruth. "My! we haven't seen a house for ten miles."

"It's somewhere up this way that those Gypsy friends of Roberto are encamped--as near as I could make out," Tom remarked.

"My! I wouldn't like to meet them," his sister said.

"They wouldn't hurt us--at least, Roberto didn't," laughed Ruth.