Airship Andy: or, The Luck of a Brave Boy. Webster Frank V.

half-way between a sigh and a groan. “I am nigh distracted with the antics of those fowls. We had eight hundred and fifty when we started. We’ve lost nigh on to a hundred in two days.”

      “What’s the trouble? Do they stray off?” inquired Andy, getting quite interested.

      “No; not many of them. The trouble is traveling. I was foolish to ever dream I could drive up to nearly one thousand geese across country sixty miles. The worst thing has been where we have hit the hill roads and the highways they’re ballasting with crushed stone. The geese get their feet so cut they can’t walk. If we try the side of the roads, then we run into ditches, or the fowls get under farm fences, and then it’s trouble and a chase. I say, lad,” continued the man, with a glance at Andy’s bandaged foot, “you don’t look any too able to get about yourself.”

      “Oh, that isn’t worth thinking of,” declared Andy. “I’ll be glad to help.”

      He quite cheered up the owner of the geese by his willingness and activity. In half an hour’s time they had all the disabled stray fowls in the enclosure. Some dead ones were left where they had fallen by the wayside.

      “I reckon the old nag is rested enough to climb up the rest of the hill now,” spoke the man to his companion, who was his son. “Fetch Dobbin along, Silas, and we’ll feed the fowls and get a snack ourselves.”

      Andy curiously regarded the poor crowbait of a horse soon driven into view attached to a ramshackly wagon. The horse was put to the grass near the enclosure, and two bags of grain unearthed from a box under the seat of the wagon and fed to the penned-in geese.

      Next Silas produced a small oil-stove, a coffee-pot and some packages, and, seated on the grass, Andy partook of a coarse but substantial breakfast with his new friends.

      “There’s a town a little ahead, I understand,” spoke the man.

      “Yes,” nodded Andy; “Afton.”

      “Then we’ve got twenty miles to go yet,” sighed the man. “I don’t know how we’ll ever make it.”

      Andy gathered from what the man said that he and his family had gone into the speculation of raising geese that season. The nearest railroad to his farm was twenty miles distant. His market was Wade, sixty miles away. He had decided to drive the geese to destination. Two-thirds of the journey accomplished, a long list of disasters spread out behind, and a dubious prospect ahead.

      “It would cost me fifty dollars to wagon what’s left to the nearest railroad station, and as much more for freight,” said the man gloomily.

      Andy looked speculative. In his mechanical work his inventive turn of mind always caused him to put on his thinking-cap when he faced an obstacle.

      “I’ve got an idea,” declared Andy brightly. “Say, mister, suppose I figure out a way to get your geese the rest of the way to market quite safely and comfortably, and help drive them the balance of the distance, what will you do for me?”

      “Eh?” ejaculated the man eagerly. “Why, I’d – I’d do almost anything you ask, youngster.”

      “Is it worth a pair of shoes, and a new cap and coat?” asked Andy.

      “Yes; a whole suit,” said the man emphatically, “and two good dollars a day on top of it.”

      “It’s a bargain!” declared Andy spiritedly. “I think I have guessed a way to get you out of your difficulties.”

      “How?”

      “I’ll show you when you are ready to start.”

      Andy set to work with vigor. He went to the back of the wagon and fitted two boards into a kind of a runway. Then he poured corn into the trough, and hitched up the old horse.