A TRIUMPHANT HOME-COMING
“And if my memory does not serve me falsely, I think there is a tent
over yonder, and just around the corner bearing a sign like this:
DINNERS SERVED HERE
BY THE LADIES OF THE FIRST CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH
PRICE $.25
Mrs. Treat is a Congregationalist, and if all the church ladies are
the experienced and skilful cooks she is, their patrons need not worry
about receiving a full twenty-five cents worth. It always pays to be
early at such a place, that I know full well, for the baskets may be
empty before the last customers are fed. I’m not sure that the Treats
will be at the Fair to-day, so I will be compelled to forage, and this
rather appeals to me. I’ve often heard about church dinners.
“Hurrah, over there is the very place I’m seeking. And how amiable
the mistress of ceremonies looks, standing over the stove at the rear
of the tent. Doesn’t a white apron swathing a woman make you think
involuntarily of things to eat? I suppose she’s preparing the coffee.
I’ll not go in by the back door. She guards that too closely. Under the
side of the tent is good enough for Billy.”
And under he went, as nimble as a kid, being egged on by gnawing hunger.
“Huh! I guess I _am_ early. The tables are not yet spread. But they
needn’t think I’m going to wait as long as that for a bite to eat.
Their sign says
DINNERS SERVED
and they’ve absolutely no right to post such a notice when it isn’t
true. They’re sailing under false colors. I’ll serve myself, seeing
they are such fibbers.”
Truth to tell, this suited Billy much better anyway, and he began to
explore the territory under the picnic tables. Numerous baskets, all
heaped with eatables, were snugly stowed away here for safe keeping
until it was time to lay the tables, and Billy decided to examine each
in turn. In one he discovered an immense pan of nicely browned beans.
Boston baked beans, just fresh from some generous oven needed to extend
no second invitation to Billy. He greedily devoured them, and then
passed on to the neighboring basket.
“My eyes, what pies!” he chuckled, “but I’m not ready for dessert as
yet. There’s no use in trying to hurry me on to the last course. I’ll
return to you, so don’t feel slighted,” as he crept stealthily on,
addressing the pastry.
Other baskets yielded generously of sandwiches, salads, pickles,
fruits--everything to his exact liking and preference, and no lively
conscience warned Billy that he was doing anything wrong in satisfying
his appetite in this manner.
If one was not expected to eat, then why was he permitted to get
hungry? That was the argument he put forth. And if one was hungry, why
shouldn’t he eat--and especially when there were so many and such good
things in front of one?
“I believe I’ll lay low until they begin to serve, for that big barrel
at the back of the tent means just one thing--ice-cream, and after it
is opened, it may be that I can manage to get a portion. At least it
is worth an effort. It is the next best thing to a good, cool drink,
and I see no likelihood of quenching my thirst. All they seem to have
is coffee, and I never yet have touched the vile stuff. It smells good
enough, but I value my nerves far too much to touch it.”
By this time the women were bustling about, spreading snowy linen over
the rough tables, and placing the dishes and silver. It required some
maneuvering for Billy to edge his way unnoticed from table to table,
but he gradually approached the back of the tent and took up his
station under the last table, crouched into the darkest corner, near
the side of the tent.
He had not long to wait until the clinking of glasses and the clatter
of knives and forks told that patrons had begun to come, and the swish
of skirts told him that waitresses were busily serving meals.
“My waiting time is nearly over,” he decided, and poked his head under
the tent just enough to get a glimpse of the ice-cream freezer. “Now
the very moment that that burly fellow leaves--as he surely will after
the first rush is over--I’ll make the raid.”
He hardly winked, so anxious was he to remain undiscovered, for this
was the crucial test. Once or twice he was forced to draw back wholly
within the tent, fearing that the man dishing out the cream would face
about and find the marauding Billy so near. But Billy had an unlimited
amount of patience about some things, and he was in the mood to exert
it for the promised treat.
“There!” sighed the man at last, mopping his brow, “that is the hardest
work I’ve done for many a day. I think I need a strong cup of coffee to
brace me up for the next round,” and he hurried off before an impatient
waitress should demand his further services.
“Now’s my time,” and Billy was up on the freezer, and had taken one
great mouthful of the cream.
“O-o-oh! What a dreadful pain it gives me in my temples. I must swallow
it very slowly, I see,” raising his head. “I wish I had some cake to
eat with it. Mrs. Treat always serves it that way at Cloverleaf Farm.
And now I understand why.”
[Illustration]
Down he plunged his head once more, but he never took the second
mouthful, for someone rudely seized him by his abbreviated tail, and
after describing a circle in the air, he landed on the ground many feet
away.
Trembling with pain, Billy darted blindly straight ahead, caring little
where he went if only he escaped this giant of strength. The paroxysm
of fright left him as soon as he heard a tumult of voices, and he
opened his eyes in wonder to find that he had rushed into the tent, now
crowded to its full capacity with diners. Such commotion as followed
defies description. Everyone rose to their feet simultaneously, as
Billy paused for a moment undecided what to do or where to go, and
then made a dash for the other door. A waitress bearing aloft a loaded
tray advanced down the narrow aisle, and it was no fault of Billy’s
that she went sprawling and her dishes flying for he did his best to
swerve to the right and give her the right of way. But the girl turned
to her left in her excitement, and so a collision resulted. Billy
darted on, escaped the shower of falling china, only to hook his horns
in a rent in one of the table-cloths, and there followed another and a
greater clatter of falling, breaking dishes. One man with more presence
of mind than the rest reached for the cloth, thinking thus to arrest
Billy’s flight, but with one vigorous forward leap the linen was torn
from Billy’s horns, and he rushed out of the tent free.
[Illustration]
“I’ll guarantee that some poor fellow will waste a quarter buying
a meal ticket there, and then they’ll find their provisions have
mysteriously disappeared, and they cannot give him a square meal,”
Billy meditated, strolling slowly along in the genial sunshine of the
early October day. In fact, after his exertions in the Congregational
dinner tent, he felt disinclined to hurry, and he ambled along
leisurely, a good-natured smile hovering around his mouth.
“Now for the races. Shall I take a grandstand seat? That’s the subject
up for discussion. I believe I prefer a little more room than they give
one there, and will occupy a special grandstand of my own. That high
road-cart over there offers a splendid vantage point, and I’m thinking
no one will care to dispute my right to it once I am installed and if
they do--well, I think I may be able to establish my ownership with
small difficulty. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, so I’ve heard
them say.”
At this time of the day, before the races were begun, the race course
was a common thoroughfare, and people crossed and recrossed without
fear. Therefore Billy now crept under the two fences outlining the
course, and in a few moments was viewing the world from his elevated
seat in a most stylish turn-out.
A rattle of the gong at the judges’ stand announced that the hour for
beginning the races had arrived, and out trotted the horses, each with
his jaunty jockey in gay cap and trousers to match. What a storm of
applause! How wild the people were over the promised contest for speed!
Up and down trotted the horses, to display their good points and to
warm up for the first heat.
“The bay is a beauty. She’s made for the track.”
“But look at the slender chestnut! Fleet limbs, those.”
“I’ll pin my faith on the black.”
These and many like remarks greeted Billy’s ears, for everyone was
ready to express their opinions of the values of each entry.
Now they are lining up for the first start, and under the rope they
go, but not all together. Back they turn and again the bell sounds the
signal. This time they are off, and how gallantly each horse responds
to the will of the driver. Now they dash around the long oval, each
taking his course, now on the outside, now on the inside as they make
the curves.
“The black! The black!” comes the cry of approval as the dainty little
mare forges ahead by one whole length.
“The bay gains. She wins! She wins!” and as they pass under the line
and wheel about ready to repeat the performance, the excited spectators
settle back into their seats, relieved of the strain and stress.
Again the jockeys form their line, each in his proper place, each eager
to urge his mount to full capacity for speed, each hoping that this
time the shouts of encouragement and approbation will be for him.
Billy is one of the best watchers. He is trembling in every limb, for
well he knows the stress of the day for the animals in the harness,
well he knows how earnestly each of the racers yearns to win, and how
much they are disappointed when they come in any place but first.
Around and around they fly, jockeys using their whips, urging on and
ever on with words uttered scarcely above a whisper, yet heard and
obeyed by the alert steeds. Feet patter on the earth, dust rises and
still on they fly, but oh, why the sudden silence? Why the bated
breath? Why the stifled moans of all this vast multitude? Not a stir
for a brief moment, for there in the track, directly in the path of the
oncoming rush of horses toddles a little youngster, barely able to walk
alone, all unmindful of its peril, taking its own time to cross the
track.
Billy sees, recognizes the danger, and with a leap is down and over the
fence, into the middle of the course, and lowering those magnificent
horns, hooks the clothes of the baby, and, never stopping to turn to
retreat, dashes on across, just in time to escape the onrush of the
racers as they round the bend.
What shouts! What hurrahs! The crowd goes wild in its frenzied
admiration. Losing all fear of such an animal, Billy is grasped by
three sturdy men, baby is lifted safely up and tenderly placed in the
outstretched arms of the mother, and then Billy is borne high on the
shoulders of the men, a conquering hero. Of course he struggles--what
goat wouldn’t?--and yet finds himself powerless, for his feet are held
by men who grip him with hands of iron and with an immense following,
they carry him around to the grandstand and then over to the platform
where the judges sit. Up the steps they go, and there, with thousands
and thousands of witnesses, the master of ceremonies decks Billy out
with a blue ribbon bow, and again shouts of admiration fairly rend the
heavens.
[Illustration]
No more racing to-day. Interest in fleet horses has suddenly died, and
through the megaphone come these words:
Ladies and Gentlemen:
You have just witnessed the brave act of a dumb animal. A goat has done
what no man had brains to conceive nor daring to put into execution.
Ladies and gentlemen, the races are called off, and, in honor of the
goat hero of the day, there will be given on the race course a grand
parade of all the animals exhibited at the Fair. You are requested to
keep your seats and witness the grand finale of the Licking County
Annual Fair.
A buzz of excitement followed this change of program, and necks were
craned and all were agog.
In a very few minutes their consuming curiosity was satisfied for there
was a long line of animals parading the circle, and at their head was
no other than Billy Whiskers, proud of his position, but still prouder
that at last his animal friends were receiving the recognition they
merited.
As the crowd recognized the leader of the procession, three mighty
cheers went up, and when Billy bowed his thanks for this overture--just
as he had done countless times during a Circus performance--the people
went wild, and hurrah after hurrah greeted him.
Not the least bit disconcerted, Billy marched the length of the track,
and had drawn up in front of the grandstand, lining up his motley
following, each with an attendant close at his head, for a final
flourish, when a little fellow standing near the grandstand shouted:
“It’s Billy! It’s my Billy!” and escaping from his father’s arms,
ran pell-mell to him, threw his arms around his neck, and then Billy
underwent such a petting as never goat had before.
[Illustration]
“Now you won’t think such bad things of my Billy, will you, mama,” Dick
petitioned, as his mother hurried up. “See, isn’t it a pretty bow he
won?”
“Well, well,” conceded Mrs. Treat, reluctantly, “he may be all right,
after all.”
“I think we’ve all had excitement enough for this Fair time. Suppose we
escape all of the palavering that will surely be lavished on us, and
start for home,” proposed Mr. Treat.
“All right,” agreed the boys, “and we’ll take Billy right along. We
don’t want him to give us the slip. He’s too valuable a goat to lose,
and we must take great care of him.”
Slowly they made their way to the automobile, for however much they
might wish to slip quietly away, the crowds thought differently, and
pressed about closely, everyone eager to get a glimpse of this very
wonderful goat.
[Illustration]
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for him,” offered a fakir, the
proprietor of one of the side shows on the midway. “He’d do a dandy act
I have in mind. A thousand dollars, I say. Take it?” he questioned.
“No, nor two thousand,” answered Tom emphatically. “Why, this goat is
the best goat in the world, I’d have you know, and _five_ thousand
couldn’t buy him to-day.”
“Changed your opinion about me since two days ago,” thought Billy,
remembering this same boy’s wish that they might rid themselves of his
goatship upon the arrival of the automobile.
“Hurry along, boys,” urged their father. “Let’s get home before the
crowd kidnaps him.”
“Or goatnaps him, papa.”
“Where shall we put him?” uneasily asked Mrs. Treat.
“Why, that’s the easiest thing of all. Where but on the front seat?”
answered Harry, unhesitatingly. “That’s the honor place, you know, and
Billy Whiskers is the honor goat of Licking County to-day.”
And this is how it came that Billy really kept his promise to old
Browny, and rode back to Cloverleaf Farm in state, occupying the front
seat, while the boys, Tom, Dick and Harry, were crowded into the
tonneau with their mother.