Excitement
was scarce in Ethan's life, and he enjoyed the pleasurable sensation
of carrying unusual tidings, even if unpleasant. "The barn door was
shut and the cows were bellowing their heads off. Not a one of 'em's
been milked!"
"I want to know!" said Joseph Peabody stupidly. "Was he in bed when
you came down, Ethan?"
"No, he wasn't," answered the hired man. "I thought he'd gone on
out. Do you suppose something's happened to him?"
Mr. Peabody stepped to the porch and gave a quick glance at the
bench where the milk pails were usually left to air and dry. They
were there, just as they had been left the night before.
"I think he's cleared out!" he announced: grimly. "Betty, do you
know what this young scoundrel is up to?"
Betty's eyes brimmed over, and she flung herself blindly into Mrs.
Peabody's arms which closed around her, though that good woman was
unaccustomed to demonstrations of affection.
"There, there." She tried to soothe the girl, for Betty's convulsive
sobbing really alarmed her.
"Don't you go to feel bad, dearie. If Bob's gone, he's gone, and
that's all there is to it."
Peabody, milk pail in hand, motioned to Ethan to go out and begin
milking.
"That isn't all there is to it, not by a long shot!" he growled at
his wife.
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