CULLY'S NIGHT OUT
All this time Patsy had stood on the porch where Tom had left him hanging over the railing wrapped in Jennie's shawl. He was not to move until she came for him: she wanted him out of the way of trampling feet. Now and then she would turn anxiously, catch sight of his wizened face dazed with fright, wave her hand to him encouragingly, and work on.
Suddenly the little fellow gave a cry of terror and slid from the porch, trailing the shawl after him, his crutch jerking over the ground, his sobs almost choking him.
“Mammy! Cully! Stumpy's tied in the loft! Oh, somebody help me! He's in the loft! Oh, please, please!”
In the roar of the flames nobody heard him. The noise of axes beating down the burning fences drowned all other sounds. At this moment Tom was standing on a cart, passing up the buckets to Carl. Cully had crawled to the ridge-pole of the tool-house to watch both sides of the threatened roof.
The little cripple made his way slowly into the crowd nearest the sheltered side of the tool-house, pulling at the men's coats, pleading with them to save his goat, his Stumpy.
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