Didn't he hop out o' the wagon as spry
as a chimpanzee, skin over the fence, an' jump into the pond,
swim out there an' tow the boy in! Yes, ma'am, he saved that
boy's life then an' no mistake. That man can read me to sleep
with poetry any night he has a mind to. He's a plumb fine
little firecracker, the Perfessor."
Farmer Pratt pulled hard on his pipe. Evidently his
friendship for the wandering bookseller was one of the
realities of his life.
"Yes, ma'am," he went on, "that Perfessor has been a good
friend to me, sure enough. We brought him an' the boy back to
the house. The boy had gone down three times an' the
Perfessor had to dive to find him. They were both purty well
all in, an' I tell you I was scared. But we got Dick around
somehow--rolled him on a sugar bar'l, an' poured whiskey in
him, an' worked his arms, an' put him in hot blankets. By and
by he come to. An' then I found that the Perfessor, gettin'
over the barb-wire fence so quick (when he lit for the pond)
had torn a hole in his leg you could put four fingers in.
There was his trouser all stiff with blood, an' he not sayin'
a thing. Pluckiest little runt in three States, by Judas!
Well, we put _him_ to bed, too, and then the Missus keeled
over, an' we put _her_ to bed.
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