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“Now,” said his father to him one day, after he had been doing a fine job of wood-piling, “now we will go and talk with the corporal about a wheelbarrow. Or do you think you could find the way yourself?” Rollo said he thought he could. “Very well, you may go; I believe I shall let you have a wheelbarrow now, and you can ask him how soon he can have it done.”
Carl Ericson was being naughty. Probably no boy in Joralemon was being naughtier that October Saturday afternoon. He had not half finished the wood-piling which was his punishment for having chased the family rooster thirteen times squawking around the chicken-yard, while playing soldiers with Bennie Rusk.
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