“HELLO, PUMPKIN MAN,”
WAS BILLY’S CORDIAL GREETING.

BILLY WHISKERS
AT THE FAIR

By
F. G. WHEELER

Drawings by ARTHUR DeBEBIAN

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
New York AKRON, OHIO Chicago

COPYRIGHT, 1909
By
The Saalfield Publishing Company

MADE BY
THE WERNER COMPANY
AKRON, OHIO

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

BILLY WHISKERS AT THE FAIR.

CHAPTER I
THE AUTOMOBILE ARRIVES

AFFAIRS at Cloverleaf Farm had been running very smoothly for a month or more. School had begun, the boys were occupied with studies and so well out of mischief’s way for five hours each day. Summer crops had been harvested, the barn was bursting with the sweet-scented hay, the well-filled silo promised many a juicy meal for the farmyard inhabitants during the approaching winter months, and in the fields the pumpkins lay like huge nuggets of pure gold, with the shocks of corn standing guard over their richness.

Billy Whiskers, as you will remember, had returned from his long travels with the Circus, the troupe of monkeys had come and gone, and the Farm was left in comparative quiet.

Yet under the outward calm there was a vague uneasiness, and a strange restlessness was apparent among the boys, which at times infected even the older members of the Treat household. All this was proven conclusively because Billy Whiskers and his gaily-painted cart were neglected, and catalogs had held much more interest than outdoor sports for the last week or more.

But such a condition of things could not last very long. One fine afternoon when the sun was casting long, slanting rays across the fields, and there was the soft haziness of first October days in the air, Tom, Dick and Harry were passing the Corners on their way home from school when the postmaster, a genial old fellow, hailed them from his seat on a cracker barrel in front of the store.

“Here, boys, wait a minute. There’s a postal for your father, and the new automobile is a-comin’, all right, all right!”

“Hooray!” shouted Tom, as he leaped up the steps.

“Hur-rah!” exulted Harry, a close second.

“Hur-rah,” echoed Dick, as he was dragged along, for the smallest of the Treat boys tugged at Harry’s hand, determined to be on the scene with his older brothers.

Three pairs of eager hands reached through the narrow little window of the board partition which served to divide the post-office from the general store, but agile Tom secured the coveted prize and was away, out of the store and off up the dusty road like a flash.

“Father, father, look here!” breathlessly shouted the trio, as they turned into the yard and drew up at the front porch steps.

Father and Mother Treat hurried to the veranda to learn the cause of all this wild commotion, and their faces wreathed in smiles at the welcome news that the auto was on its way.

“When do you think it’ll get here?”

“Will you let me drive her?”

“I may, mayn’t I, papa?”

The beleaguered father shook off the eager questioners with:

“Now, boys, the card says that the machinist who is to deliver the automobile will probably arrive to-morrow afternoon. I think we’ll have to make it a holiday, so you will be on hand when it comes.”

“Now, father,” remonstrated Mrs. Treat quickly, “that is unwise. They’d much better be in school.”

“Tut, tut, mother! Boys must have some good times, I think.”

“Oh, father, do let us!” petitioned the boys, and a cheery nod satisfied them that the victory was theirs.

Very little indeed was accomplished by the Treat boys the next morning, and kind Miss Clinton, their teacher, was at a loss for an explanation of the wriggling, twisting and manifest uneasiness possessing them.

Tom was detected in the act of attempting to communicate with Harry, the note was confiscated by Miss Clinton, and Tom himself straightway sent to the platform, where he whiled away the dreary, lagging moments by driving an imaginary automobile over the hills at a terrific speed, much to the envy of his schoolmates.

“I’ll ask everyone of ’em to ride, except Miss Clinton,” he pondered, planning revenge for his present predicament. “And then I guess she’ll wish she hadn’t punished me.”

Noon came at last, as all noons do, and then the note was presented to Miss Clinton by little Dick, though by this time it was very much the worse for frequent fingering. The little fellow had not been able to keep his hands off the precious thing for longer than five minutes at a time. First he had to make sure that it really was in his pocket. Then again he took just one peep inside to reassure himself that it asked that he and his brothers be excused from the afternoon session. Each time he took it out, he patted it lovingly, and therefore it now bore many a print of chubby and very smudgy finger tips.

Miss Clinton’s consent was readily given, for rules in the country districts are not so iron-clad as in the more crowded city schools, and away hastened the boys for the noonday meal at home.

It proved to be rather a tempestuous one, and Mrs. Treat was glad indeed when chairs were pushed back from the board and the restive group betook themselves to the wide, shady veranda. It commanded a splendid view of the road toward Springfield, for it mounted a gradual ascent of a mile or more before it scurried over and down again in its eagerness to reach the city.

“I wonder what Billy will do when he sees the machine,” piped up little Dick, as they settled themselves comfortably in hammock and in spacious, comfortable porch chairs.

“Well, he has seen plenty of autos go by here, and after all his experiences with the Circus this summer, he ought to behave, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Treat uneasily, for she was never quite sure that she understood Billy and all his varying moods.

Now Billy overheard this remark, for he was just around the corner of the house, on the outside cellar door, this being his favorite spot on warm afternoons.

In fact, he was very fond of luxury, and always took a siesta after a hearty meal and during the heated portion of the day.

“Don’t be too sure of that, Mrs. Treat,” soliloquized mischievous Billy. “I am not so old yet that I shall rest content without occasional adventures. I really believe I am beginning to be a trifle bored, now that I think of it. Nothing interesting has happened in this countryside for a whole month, and it is high time that I stir up the community a bit. It really seems too ba—”

“He’s coming! He’s coming!” shouted Tom. “Just over the hill! Don’t you see him?”

And the three boys, unable to control their delight, pranced around, threw their caps high into the air, and then raced down to the gate.

“Look at her go! Bet she can make thirty miles an hour,” predicted Harry.

“She is surely plowing through the sand in great style,” said Tom, as the automobile reached the flats and struck the heavy sand of the bottoms.

“I’m a-goin’ to sit on the front seat,” announced Dick confidently, hanging over the gate and swinging back and forth.

“Oh, no, you’re not, sonny! I am, you know,” declared patronizing Harry, but Tom, the deliberate, silenced them both.

“You’ll neither of you sit on the front seat. Babies belong back in the tonneau with their mother, and that’s just where you’ll be, youngsters. Father and I will sit in front, you’ll see.”

“Huh!” grunted Harry, with fine contempt. “Think because you’re an inch taller’n me you own the farm, don’t you?”

They were still arguing this all-important question when with toot of horn and a fine flourish the automobile drew up at the gate, and the chauffeur bent over the wheel to inquire:

“This Cloverleaf Farm?”

“Well, I just guess, and that is our automobile!” was the satisfactory, if rather inelegant response.

“Glad to see you, very glad to see you!” was Mr. Treat’s cordial welcome as he hastened to shake hands with the driver.

“Glad to meet you too, sir, and to deliver the car safe and sound. She’s in finest trim. Suppose we might as well proceed right to business. I must get back to Springfield to-night to catch the eight-forty westbound. Shall I teach you to drive her now?”

“Well, to-morrow is Fair day, and we’ll want to use her, of course. But come in, and have a drink of sweet cider and a doughnut first. You must be thirsty,” urged Mr. Treat, not forgetful of hospitality. “Boys, run and tell mother to put on her bonnet and to come out for a little spin.”

During this time Billy Whiskers had not been idle. He had observed the approach of the car, and leisurely ambled around to the front of the farmhouse, nibbling grass and occasionally taking a sample of Mrs. Treat’s special pride, a gaudy bed of scarlet geraniums bordered with sweet elyssum.

At last he took up his station on the front steps, in order to view the automobile to best possible advantage. With one long look, he said to himself:

“That is a mighty fine contraption. Glad I was able to earn it for the boys. ’Twas well worth a summer of toil, hardship and privation to give my Dick a bit of pleasure. What fine times we’ll have in it! But why, w-h-y, how is this?” questioned surprised Billy from the porch steps, for Mrs. Treat had needed no second bidding to take her first ride in the automobile, and had brushed past him, unheeding.

In fact, she had laid her hat on the bed of the spare room downstairs early that morning, all ready to be donned for this very occasion, and even now the family was being stowed away in the rear seat of the auto, doors were being securely fastened, last cautions and warnings given, and the driver was cranking the machine preparatory to starting.

“Why, w-h-y,” repeated Billy in astonishment, “They’ve forgotten me. I’ll just remind them,” and he ran down to the gate, bleating his displeasure.

“Good-bye, old Billy!”

“Race along behind! There’s a good fellow!” Harry called.

And with these words of scant consolation, the machine glided off, leaving Billy a very much disconcerted and crestfallen goat.

Then jealousy crept into his heart, and filled it near to bursting.

“They surely remember that it is my automobile. I am the one who really earned it, I’d have them to know! I am the one who should have had the honor of the very first ride. It is my money they are spending, and yet here I stand, alone and forsaken, while they go whizzing off in such fine style!”

Now as everyone knows, boys and girls especially, jealousy is a very naughty thing to cherish, and revenge is even worse, but, his anger mounting higher and higher, Billy proceeded to plan vengeance.

“I don’t like the smell of the thing, anyhow, and if they don’t let me ride in it, perhaps my horns can take some of the shine off its sides. I’ll bite a piece out of the tires, too, and then maybe they’ll have time to remember a little of what Billy Whiskers has done for this family. I might even drink the gasolene, but you see that might explode after it’s inside of me and not prove altogether a safe undertaking,” and he sadly returned to the cellar door for his usual afternoon nap.

The Treats did not return for two hours or more, and then all were so loud in their praises of the automobile that poor Billy was quite forgotten.

A bountiful supper was spread, and the machinist entertained in true country style. After the meal, all repaired to the porch for a final chat before the driver should be taken to Springfield by Mr. Treat.

“I’ll remind them of my existence,” thought Billy, and he stalked slowly across the front lawn with majestic tread, in full view of the group, on his way to the barn and his quarters for the night.

“What a very fine goat you have there,” complimented the chauffeur.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Mr. Treat, “but a great nuisance, I sometimes think.”

“Why,” interrupted Mrs. Treat, “what do you think? A few weeks ago he came back home with a whole pack of trained monkeys he had led in a Circus performance this last summer, and glad enough I was when we were finally rid of them. He’s a scapegoat, I’m sure of that.”

“A goat is all right, but an auto is lots better,” decided unloyal Tom. “I wish we could sell him now.”

“You do, eh?” thought Billy, as he disappeared around the house. “If I ever have a chance at some of the people who are always so ready to discard their old friends, they will wish I had never come back from the Circus with enough money to buy their automobile,” and as a balm for his wounded vanity, Billy wandered down to the barn to spread discontent and rebellion among his animal friends.

“Well, Browny,” he began, as he entered that faithful horse’s box stall, “the new auto has come, and all the farmyard animals will have to look to their laurels now. They may even be entirely forgotten and perhaps left to starve.” You can see from this remark that Billy was possessed of a remarkably vivid imagination.—“I’ve gone supperless to-night, which may be but the beginning of the new order of things.”

“Now, Billy Whiskers, that is sheer nonsense. Why, I’ve been with the Treats ever since they were bride and groom, and I have carried each of the boys around on my back as soon as they were able to hold on to my mane. They’ll never forget the services of old Browny.” And he proudly tossed his noble head.

“Oh, don’t be too sure of that,” returned Billy. “Just remember what I did for them this summer. And now Mrs. Treat is calling me a nuisance and a scapegoat, whatever that is. This minute they are planning long trips, but never a word of thanks to Billy.”

Browny gave a hoarse laugh of mingled contempt and ridicule.

“Why, William Whiskers,” he said in a tone of sharp rebuke, “you are carrying on like a half-grown kid instead of a full-grown, bewhiskered goat!”

“Never mind, we’ll see how you behave when your time to be cast aside comes. You’ll not even get to the Fair this year.”

“You’re wrong there, Billy. I’ll go the same as I have for the past fifteen years. Be up bright and early to-morrow morning and you’ll see me on the way.”

“Perhaps, and again perhaps not.”

“Well, at any rate I’m not worrying. Why, this morning you saw our farmyard beauty, the Duke of Windham, along with Dick’s Plymouth Rock, Toppy, as they started for the exhibit. They’ll be prize winners, or I miss my guess. The Treat farm is always well represented. By the way, Billy, are you going? Lots of fun—such fun as you’ve never seen. Better come along,” cordially.

“Oh, I’ll be there. But be sure you are among those present, that is all,” retorted the goat, with a knowing wink.

“Going to walk, same as you did to get to the Circus?” prodded droll Browny.

“Not if I know it,” was Billy’s quick reply. Ambling up closer, he reached up and whispered confidentially:

“I’m going in the automobile, with the rest of the family. A goat of my experience and breeding goes with the best,” and with that Billy stalked off, head held high, well satisfied at having filled Browny as full of uncomfortable forebodings as he himself had been a short time before.

WHACK! RESOUNDED A BROOMSTICK ON
BILLY’S BROAD BACK.

“I surely smell doughnuts,” thought Billy as he sniffed the keen outside air, and he quickened his steps toward the kitchen, which had been the scene of unusual activity that day.

Peering cautiously in, he found the field clear, much to his satisfaction.

“Deserted! I’ll now eat the supper I didn’t have a while ago.”

And into the pantry walked the naughty Billy, to pilfer the results of Mrs. Treat’s day spent at baking and brewing.

“Dear me! there surely are doughnuts somewhere about. I never make a mistake in that regard, for they are prime favorites with one B. W. Ah, there they are, and a two-gallon crock piled high with the brown beauties! I’ll try just one, and then that pumpkin pie on the next shelf looks a bit toothsome, too. I really think that all these doughnuts, six pies all in a row, a chocolate cake, and then another that they call a sponge, though I never could see the reason for the name, besides three fried chickens in that earthen bowl are just a little more than the boys ought to be allowed to eat to-morrow. It might make them sick, and so I’ll play the good fairy and remove temptation from their path,” and Billy fell to with a will.

His stomach was commencing to bulge with the goodies, and even his goatish appetite was half satisfied, when Whack! Whack! resounded a broomstick on Billy’s broad back, wielded vigorously by the mistress of the household. Discouraged and back beaten, his goatship scurried to the barn, there to nurse his many grievous wrongs.

“Small use in my trying to do right,” he cogitated. “Somebody is always against me, and as soon as I am up, they are sure to knock me down. I am getting sore,” and he rubbed his poor back against Browny’s stall. “Anyway, there’s a good time ahead to-morrow.”

Now Billy had heard a great deal of this annual county event, for the Treat boys had discussed it at length. Nevertheless, it would all be new to him. As he sought his bed of fragrant hay, his thoughts ran:

“Wonder what a Fair is like. Maybe just a miniature Circus, and then it will be a bore to me. But I’ll go in the auto. That will be a new experience, anyway. Will sit on the front seat, too; if not going to the Fair, at least on the return trip. There will be room for me somewhere. I have always managed my own affairs with a fair measure of success, and I believe I can this time. They say where there’s a will there’s a way, and I am the Will in this instance. With a good night’s rest and an early breakfast, I will be in trim and—and—” but Billy was off to the land of dreams.

CHAPTER II
FAIR DAY DAWNS

AS IS the invariable custom with all thrifty farm folk, the Treat family was astir as soon as the sun had begun his journey across the sky. Just as the first bright streaks of light shot up from the horizon in the east, Mr. Treat went to the stock barns to do his morning chores, and his good wife was busy in her kitchen preparing the morning meal. The boys were eager to lend a hand—an extraordinary state of affairs, to say the least, but they were so brimming full of excitement at the prospects of the day before them that finally they were banished from the kitchen, their mother declaring them nuisances and far more of a hindrance than a help.

As the sound of the clicking gate leading from the barnyard to the vegetable garden at the rear of the house proclaimed Mr. Treat’s return, his wife poured out the steaming, fragrant coffee and Tom was summoned to carry the savory ham and eggs to the table. Mrs. Treat was one of those women who realize that a farmer must dilly-dally at his meals no more than any business man, and seldom indeed was this family asked to wait for a meal.

“Looks like a fine day ahead of us,” Mr. Treat reported as he opened the door. “The little fog in the valley is clearing fast, and by noon it will be warm enough for our picnic dinner in the maple grove.”

“Evening red and morning gray

Sets the traveler on his way,”

quoted Mrs. Treat. “I was not worrying about the weather, for that sign never fails.”

“Goody! Goody!” exulted Dick. “Let’s hurry, father.”

“Well, all the stock has been fed, and my work is done. If mother will pack the lunch, we’ll be off within the hour. I’ve taken a look at the automobile and everything is in shape for the start.”

“I’d much rather go in the carriage, with Browny,” remonstrated Mrs. Treat nervously. “You know, father—”

“Oh, father, please don’t!” chorussed Tom and Harry in a breath.

“I’ll drive Browny!” cried cheery little Dick, always ready to acquiesce to any plan.

“Now, mother,” wheedled Mr. Treat, “don’t you worry! That machinist told me a lot of things about the auto, and you know I drove to Springfield and back again last night after supper. I made the return trip alone, too, and so nothing’s going to happen to-day. Boys,” dismissing the subject, “help pack the hamper, and I’ll fill the gasolene tank.”

Boys and girls who have lived all their years in the city have scant idea of all the good things that went into the Treat hamper that morning.

There was a crisp salad of celery, apples, nuts and lettuce, dozens and dozens of sandwiches with a liberal filling of boiled ham, pickles—tomato pickles, cucumber pickles, pickled pears, pickled onions—cold chicken, sliced ham, baked beans, mince pie, pumpkin pie, doughnuts, and a delicious cake.

The preparation of the lunch was Mrs. Treat’s special pride, and all her housewifely art was exerted to make it the best her ovens could produce. As she spread the snowy napkins over the top of the bountiful feast, she said:

“This lunch basket is rather large, but it will set in that hamper on the auto very easily. I’ve packed this basket tight, and the things won’t jiggle at all. Now, Tom, you take hold of this side, and Harry, you may take this, and tell your father to crowd in newspapers securely about it so it can’t move an inch. I always think when I see an auto go spinning by that the trunk’ll surely bump off when they go over the thank-e-ma’ams on the hill.”

“Mama said to fix it tight,” cautioned Tom, as the basket was lifted to its place in the larger hamper on the rack.

“I’ll do that, my son, and now run in and bring me some more papers. This lunch must carry safely, or our day will be spoiled.”

“There!” sighed Mr. Treat, as he tested the hamper to see that no amount of bumping would disturb the lunch, “that will do, but I will let the lid be open, for mother’ll be sure to want to tuck in something else at the very last moment. Come along, boys, we’ll get our hats and then be off,” and they merrily trooped into the house.

Jealous Billy had not been idle all this time. Indeed, he had been spying out the situation from a favorite hiding-place in the hay mow, and now he descended to reconnoiter further.

“How am I ever to get to the Fair in that? There’s no place underneath where I can hang on. I can’t get inside, for they’ll see me first thing, and then I’ll be taken into the barn and securely locked up. That was the treatment I received in the summer when the Circus came to Springfield. I can’t ride anywhere that I can see.”

Once more he circled around the machine.

“If there was only a top to the machine, I might manage to ride on it. To be sure, it might prove rather slippery, but I’d dig in my toes. There would be one disadvantage, though. I’d receive the full benefit of all the bumps on the road, perched up there.”

With a saucy side toss of his magnificent head, he paused suddenly to chuckle:

“Ha, ha! Ho, ho! Just the very place for me! Ha, ha, ha!” and with one light spring he was up beside the hamper.

“Plenty of room with a few of those papers out of the way,” so he proceeded to dispense with them by eating them—not a very appetizing meal, but goats are not the most epicurean of beasts. When they had been disposed of in this manner, he stepped daintily inside the hamper, though it was a very tight fit. Then his eyes popped open and a broad smile lighted up his countenance, and he wiggled his chin whiskers, a trick he had to express extreme pleasure.

“What luck for Billy! Breakfast all laid! And Mrs. Treat’s best cooking, too.”

With a little flirt of his horns, wicked Billy brought the cover down over himself and the lunch basket, and to all outward appearances everything was very snug.

“Good thing this is so large,” ruminated Billy. “Really it is more of a rattan trunk than a hamper. I suppose it is meant to do duty for a trunk on short trips,” and he settled himself comfortably, and only just in time, for Mr. Treat was even then calling in his hearty, jovial way: “All aboard!” and was helping Mrs. Treat into the tonneau.

After an argument as to whom belonged the honor place—the seat beside the driver—Tom was installed there, while the younger boys were tucked in beside their mother, pacified by the promise that on the return trip it would be turn-about.

In the excitement of getting off, Mr. Treat forgot all about the unfastened hamper, and so with a few preliminary coughs and rumbles, the machine glided smoothly out of the drive on to the highway—a six-passenger car.

From the time the boys had been out of bed, they had been popping to the front window in the kitchen at every noise made by passing vehicles.

“Mama, mama, there go the Ripleys!” they complained, eager to be off.

“We’ll never get there if we don’t start pretty soon,” they fairly groaned.

“Never mind, never mind,” Mother Treat comforted. “We are going in the automobile, you know, and we will overtake all those people before they are so very many miles on their way.”

And now that they were skimming along so rapidly, they really began to pass their neighbors in their slower, horse-drawn conveyances.

Farmer Treat honked merrily as he rolled up behind them and as horses were turned to one side to give liberal passing room, the boys answered the friendly greetings with happy shouts and waving caps.

“We will beat the whole township to the Fair,” predicted Tom, ever full of confidence.

“B-b-b-b-u-u-u-r-r-r-r-r-r!” came a hoarse, grating sound from the depths of the auto as they reached the first slight incline which began the long, steady half-mile mount of Rex Hill.

Mr. Treat, full of fear at the unusual noise, put on the emergency brake and brought the car to a standstill with a sudden jolt.

“Mercy me!” shouted Mrs. Treat, from the tonneau. “Let me out! I told you something would happen and we’d all be killed. Let me out!” she repeated, fumbling frantically at the door.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the boys, as they began to tinker with spark plug, brake and lever.

“Let those be!” commanded Mr. Treat, not in the best of humor, and trying in vain to conceal his uneasiness. “I’ll soon have it fixed,” and he continued his search for the cause of the trouble.

“It isn’t the tires as I can see, and nothing’s wrong with the sparker, either,” he said nervously. “And there comes the George Petersons, and he’ll have a spell if he sees me in difficulty. He is always glad to laugh at one in trouble. Besides, I know he’s wanted an auto for a long time, and a chance to laugh at—Mother, come on! Climb in. It’s all right. I must have fed the engine too much gasolene. Climb in and we’ll be hustling along.”

All went well until they topped the hill and struck a new cinder road when b-b-bu-ur-r-r-r! came the same dismal, warning sound.

“Land sakes! Whatever can be the trouble now? I am getting that fidgety that I sha’n’t be able to enjoy anything at the Fair when we do get there!” fretted Mrs. Treat.

“I’m pretty certain it is the gear,” said her husband, “or else the carbureter.”

“Perhaps it is the spark plug,” offered knowing Tom.

“Mightn’t it be the batteries,” suggested Dick with a wise expression in his great blue eyes, and a frown on his face.

“Or may be one of the differentials,” added Harry, eager to be of help to his father.

“Well, I am pretty sure it is a judgment on us,” responded Mrs. Treat. “I think we had better turn back and get old Browny and the surrey. We’ll be sure to get there some time then. Now I don’t know that we ever shall.”

“What did I do?” questioned Mr. Treat as the engine began to respond to his vigorous cranking. “I’ve cranked and cranked and cranked, and why it should begin now and not ten minutes ago is beyond my comprehension.”

If the driver had been of an inquiring turn of mind and had conducted his investigations a little further, he might have located the real cause of all his difficulties.

In the course of the last half hour, Billy Whiskers had been feasting himself upon the pies and cakes and other delicacies stored in the hamper.

“My, what would Browny think if he could see me now!” he thought. And it was his roar of delight that resulted in the first consternation of the inexperienced chauffeur.

“Deary me!” thought the goat when the auto brought up with a violent jerk. “I wish Mr. Treat would be more careful. I’ll surely be caught now, and he will be the death of me if he finds me in here,” and a nervous shiver or two ran down his spine. But when all quieted down and the machine was making good time over the country roads, Billy resumed his repast, only to be interrupted once or twice by his chuckles of bubbling good nature.

At last, even his appetite being fully satisfied, he began to lay further plans for his outing.

“In the first place,” he mused, “how am I ever to get out of this box? My legs are cramped, and I ache in every bone from remaining so long in such an awkward position. I’ll stretch a bit and see where we are, at the same time,” and he cautiously raised the hamper lid with his head.

“Well, well! If there isn’t the gate to the grounds. How glad I am to see it. I’ll crouch down here and ride right in with the family.”

But the flowers on Mrs. Treat’s hat proved his undoing, for they waved so temptingly near, Billy could not resist one little nibble to see if they were as delicious as they looked. Feeling the twitch as his teeth fastened upon them, that lady turned suddenly, and Billy, making a hurried effort to escape her eye, dodged down behind. Unfortunately, he lost his balance and fell into the dust, and it was only due to the fact that the hamper was strapped on securely that he did not carry that along. He rolled over and over in the deep dust of the unpaved roadway until his beautiful white coat was soiled and grimy.

Regaining his footing with a bound, he shook himself to free his coat of the dirt and to express his disgust.

“’Twill never do to let a trifle like this keep me from the Fair. I must gain an entrance somehow,” and he ran as fast as his fleet legs could carry him.

He made a desperate effort to overtake the automobile, now almost at the gate, but just as the machine rolled past the entrance and into the enchanted territory, Billy dashed up, only to be confronted by the gateman, who nimbly swung the wide gate back into place—and Billy was outside!

“Beaten!” he gasped, gazing wrathfully after the fast disappearing automobile. “How can I get inside of that high fence?”

The gateman threw a few stones at Billy to chase him away, and so he sadly and slowly began to patrol the fence, searching for some place that would offer easy entrance. Two or three times he was half way under, squirming his way in like a common dog, but a crowd of boys found him and, taking advantage of his helpless position, threw sticks and stones, and forced him to withdraw.

Coming to a high bluff that overlooked the grounds, he climbed it and lay down for a few moments of rest, to rearrange his disordered plans.

He could see the tops of the many tents and the roof of the grandstand, dazzlingly white in its new coat of paint, and the long, curving course of the race track stretching before it. All of these things he quickly recognized from the descriptions he had heard the boys give, and then, too, it resembled the Circus to a striking degree.

About the tents and buildings he could see the crowds beginning to surge. He could hear the barking of many dogs, the cackling of chickens, the lowing of the cows, the baaing of the sheep, the squealing of the pigs, and the confused murmur of the people,—a great hubbub down there, but just a faint murmur at this distance.

“Oh, if only I were there! It must be glorious. See that beautiful horse trotting around the track at the far side—and there, there is our auto, I’m sure of it! I wonder what Mrs. Treat will say when she discovers that something has happened to her fine lunch. But here, I must gain entrance to these grounds by hook or by crook.”

He thought a long time, but one plan after another was cast aside as being too foolhardy, or unworthy his prowess, or beneath his dignity. At last, just below him, he spied little Dick coming along beside his mother.

“Ah, there is my playfellow!” and with no thought but to join him, he bounded over the forbidding fence.

“Oh, Billy, Billy!” shouted surprised Dick. “I’m so glad to see you,” but Billy needed just one quick glance at Mrs. Treat’s face to realize that it was wise for him to keep his distance and away he scurried, free as when on his native hills in far-away Switzerland.

CHAPTER III
IN THE NEEDLEWORK EXHIBIT

AFTER Billy had put a safe distance between himself and Mrs. Treat to feel at ease, he wandered aimlessly along, letting himself be carried here and there, wherever he chanced to see anything that offered interest, when suddenly he heard a squeaky, high-pitched voice saying:

“Oh, where have you been,

Billy boy, Billy boy?”

“Who is that? I do not recognize the voice, but it may be some of my old friends from the Circus,” and knowing that the voice issued from a tent near by, he promptly stuck his head under the canvas side and took a look about.

Billy Whiskers, as you already know, had a very large bump of curiosity, and tents were no mystery to him after his long experience of the summer just gone.

“Nothing there,” he quickly decided, when from the other side of the tent came the inquiry in a sing-song, high falsetto:

“Oh, where have you been,

Billy boy, Billy boy?

Oh, where have you been,

Charming Billy?”

By this time Billy’s eyes commenced to bulge with wonder, for he was as susceptible to flattery as any.

“I wonder which of my friends is playing this joke. Come out, old fellow, and give me a fair chance,” he demanded.

“Oh, where have you been,

Billy boy, Billy boy?

Oh, where have you been,

Charming Billy?

I’ve been to seek a wife,

For the pleasure of my life,

She’s a young thing,

And cannot leave her mother!”

came the mocking answer.

“If I could find the insolent fellow, I would cure him of prying into other people’s affairs. More trouble is made in this world by prying eyes and itching ears than any other one thing. That much I’ve learned in my short career. But there is nothing here except that box with the tin horn sticking out of the top. It must be someone is trying to play a practical joke on me.”

Billy crept all the way into the tent, for he still hoped to find one of his friends in hiding. Walking about cautiously to explore, he had all but reached the mysterious box when once more the voice began to repeat:

“Oh, where have you been,

Billy boy, Bil——”

“Now I know who ’tis. It’s one of those parrots who traveled with the Circus, and that box must be her cage. They always were the sauciest things, and full of importance, and I’ll teach her a much-needed lesson.”

Backing away to gain a start, Billy made the attack and struck the box full in the center. Over it went with a great clatter, and the noise summoned an attendant, who rushed in to see what had happened.

“Get out o’ here! Get out o’ here! You’ve smashed the greatest invention of the age,” and, stick in hand, he started after Billy with wrath in his eye.

Deciding that discretion was much the better part of valor, Billy took quick refuge in precipitous flight. He crept under the side of the tent once more, but this time his departure was hastened a trifle by a final prod from his pursuer.

“No use,” thought the discouraged goat. “I receive many rough knocks in this great world. If they had not called me in here, I would never thought of entering, and then the moment I am inside, they boost me out as if I were an intruder, and so it goes—but here I am at this large building. Let me see what it has to offer. I always like to make the rounds to these show places before the crush commences. Besides, this seems to be devoted to the ladies, so it deserves my first attention. Then I am always a wee bit shy and timid when the ladies are around, so altogether it behooves me to get in early.”

In reality, Billy had wandered into the needlework department of the great Fair. The walls were hung with quilts of all colors and makes. There was the common four-patch, the more pretentious nine-patch, and then the intricate, puzzling designs of the tulip pattern, and, above all, some proud owner had brought her wonderful Rising Sun design, with its limitless amount of work.

Large pieces of embroidery likewise were displayed, and show cases were filled with the most expensive and exquisite hand-made laces. Tables were strewn with fine doilies, elaborate handkerchiefs, scarfs and what not.

Billy was plainly amazed, and stood with wide-open eyes gazing about.

“Just look at those handsome pillows and the soft, downy cushions! How fine it must be to sleep on them instead of on a hard bundle of straw or perhaps on the hay beside the hay stack,” and so musing, Billy walked the length of the hall.

People were now beginning to crowd the building, and Billy was scarcely noticed among the throng. Petticoats were much in predominance, as men are little, if ever, deeply interested in such things as were here displayed. Billy rejoiced at this, for he did not hold women in such respect as men—they might shriek louder, but instead of giving chase and inflicting merited punishment, they much more often merely screamed their fright, and then collapsed in a little, limp heap. Therefore his seeming boldness on this occasion.

Once an old lady, dim of sight, patted him on the back, but, bending closer, discovered his horns and drew fearfully away, wondering at her fortunate escape.

As Billy strolled along, he became conscious that he was frightfully hungry, and when he heard a lady exclaim in admiration at a “biscuit quilt,” he edged nearer to that center of attraction.

There on the wall he saw what appeared to be a mammoth pan of many colored biscuit. For a long time he gazed at the sight, lost in happy contemplation of the feast that it would afford. The longer he looked, the hungrier he grew, and the wilder became the desire to sink his teeth in the delicious, puffy looking things.

When most of the crowd had pressed on to another point of interest, he crept up to the toothsome dainty and began to nibble at it.

“Rather tough,” he commented, “but perhaps they’ve baked too hard around the edge and when I get nearer the middle, the biscuits will be more tender. It must have been rather a large pan, and the outer ones had too much heat,” and he ate on with a right good will.

Having consumed all that was within easy reach, he began to pull. With a crash the entire supporting frame fell to the floor, knocking two or three people down and striking Billy a spiteful blow on the head.

Blinded for the moment, and enraged, he plunged madly into a show-case. There the shower of falling, shattered glass terrified him the more, and he turned to make a frantic rush through the rapidly gathering throng, knocking down any and all who blocked his path with those cruel, lowered horns.

BILLY LANDED IN A GREAT TUB OF WATER.

Finding progress almost impossible and fearing immediate capture, he leaped up on a table and ran helter-skelter from one end to the other. In his mad careening, his horns caught an exquisite lace shawl, and it went streaming behind him like the tail of a comet as he made one long, flying leap through an open window, to safety, as he thought, but S-P-L-A-S-H! Billy landed in a great tub of water in which seven or eight ducks were calmly besporting themselves.

“Three rings for five cents!

Try your luck!

Seven for ten cents!

Win a duck!”

screamed the fakir.

Hearing the wild hissing and quacking of his prize fowls, he turned to investigate, and just in time to see Billy Whiskers scramble out of the miniature duck pond and vigorously shake himself free of the water of his involuntary and unexpected bath.

“There,” thought Billy, “I’m away from that mob of petticoats, and also from that stringy thing that fastened itself to my horns,” for one duck, more daring than its fellows, had plucked the cob-webby lace off Billy’s horns and was waddling off with the filmy plunder.

More concerned about the safety of his ducks than with the intrusion of the goat, the fakir bustled about restoring them to their tub, and Billy made off, much to the amusement of the ring throwers.

Perhaps you have known people that were so engrossed with their own small troubles that they had no thought for the countless beautiful things in the world about them—never saw the blooming flowers, never heard the warble of the feathered songster, never enjoyed any of the countless wondrous things God has put into His world for His children’s pleasure?

Well, Billy was not that kind. No sooner had he extricated himself from his predicament of the duck pond than he cocked up his head, shut one eye in a provoking wink, and drank in what was as pleasing to his ears as rare wine to the palate of the epicure—the strains of music from a merry-go-round.

It was just coming to a standstill as Billy approached, and in the attending bustle and excitement of unloading the youngsters, he managed to secrete himself between two prancing, though wooden steeds. In a moment the shrill whistle tooted its warning and last invitation to another group to board, and the children crowded the circular platform. Hurriedly they chose their places, one little fellow crying:

“Oh, let me ride the Billy dote! He is just like the Billy I want at home, favver!”

And there stood our Billy, rigid as a statue, never wiggling so much as one whisker while the youngster bestrode his back and clutched at his horns.

Round and round and round the merrymakers circled, as dizzy as they were happy. The piano played, the children laughed, and the grown-ups, though scarcely so boisterous, enjoyed the trip fully as much as the little folks whom they accompanied—for of course they had to go along. Wouldn’t it be too dreadful if the boys and girls should tumble off their steeds?

Presently the merry-go-round stopped, and as the children poured fourth to make room for the next relay, Billy cautiously watched his opportunity to escape, dizzy and very weak of leg from the rapid circling of the merry-go-round. As he made off, he skulked behind this building and that, fearful that someone who had witnessed the havoc he had created in the fancy-work department might still be on his trail.

CHAPTER IV
THE BABY SHOW

NOW, Billy Whiskers, this is much like your experience in the early summer at the Circus, and you know full well what dire consequences followed then,” scolded the goat, for one of Billy’s favorite pastimes was to talk to himself as though he were two goats, Billy the good reproving Billy the mischief-maker; Billy the first admonishing Billy the second for his escapades and bewailing his abnormal capacity for evil doing.

“It is high time that you decide to keep out of harm’s way,” he continued with a wag of the head, “for if you don’t, someone with a blue coat and a shiny piece of metal on his breast will catch you and then there’ll be the end of all fun and the beginning of a most dreary time in captivity.”

“Well, well,” impatiently agreed the fun-loving goat, “you’re in the right, as always, wise William, and we’ll reform—for to-day. We’ll see all there is to be seen at this Fair in a becoming manner, though I fear me it will be a trifle dull and prosy—like spice cake minus the spice.”

All this time he had been ambling slowly along, following the general trend of the crowd down a street lined both sides with booths and buildings which flaunted the gayest of bunting and flags, and now he drew up with a start as he found himself at the end and facing an open door, for he was wary of buildings in view of his recent experience in the needlework department.

Here before him was a great sea of faces. Long rows of chairs and in every one of them a woman with a baby! Babies and babies and babies were there. Some were fat and rosy, well content to sit quietly on their proud mothers’ laps, others were lean and agile, and forever on the move, but all were beruffled and belaced in billowing garments of purest white.

“Ah!” ruminated Billy, “this must be the Baby Show. I heard Mrs. Treat talking about it the other day. I’ll see what sort of specimens are carrying off the palm these days,” and in he sauntered.

“Now I’m sure that if my Dick was a baby again, he’d have first place. Even now he is the roundest, rosiest, merriest little youngster I’ve ever met—and goodness knows, I’m rather an experienced judge. Didn’t I see thousands and thousands of boys and girls all last summer? If ever you wish to see all sorts and kinds, the Circus is the place for you. Why, I remember one day—but there, to the business in hand,” and he commenced to pace slowly down one aisle.

“Isn’t she the dearest thing?” ejaculated one woman immediately in front of Billy, pausing so suddenly to fondle a baby all done up in blue ribbons and lace that Billy, now on his good behavior, had much ado to save her from an uncomfortable and unpleasant encounter with his horns. With skilful maneuvering, however, he essayed to pass by, but, his curiosity aroused, he peered around to discover the cause of her admiring words.

By this time the baby was undergoing a series of pattings and huggings at the hands of the visitor, while the delighted mother hovered over the two.

“Doesn’t she look bright? But then, she ought to be. Now my Jamie, he’s only five, and he’s the smartest boy,” and motherly pride beamed as she launched into the story.

“Jamie is the cutest chap, and can wind his father right round his little finger and lead him where he pleases. Last winter when Washington’s birthday came, I thought he was old enough to hear about the Father of his country, so I told him all about the boy George. The next morning I saw him climb up on his father’s lap and, opening his big blue eyes in that cunning way all his own, he asked:

“‘Papa, did George Washington really and truly cut down that cherry-tree?’”

“‘Yes, my son, so they say.’”

“‘And didn’t his papa whip him for being so dreadfully naughty?’ with a shake of the head to express his wonder.”

“‘No. You see, Jamie, he was proud to have a son who was brave enough to tell the truth even though he thought a whipping would follow owning up.’”

“‘Well, papa, would you whip me if I cut down a tree?’ came next from our boy.”

“‘I think not, Jamie. Yes, I’m sure I would not whip you. I would be just every bit as proud of you for telling the honest truth as George Washington’s father was of his boy.’”

“‘Say, father,’ and Jamie snuggled up closer to his father, ‘I never told you, but one day last summer I went over to Rob’s house and—and—I ate a whole bushel, almost, of mulberries!’ came the hesitating confession.” And the mother glanced around quickly to note the effect of the story on her audience.

“He is a little diplomat, that I see from your story,” commented one of the group of ladies who had gathered about.

“Boys are dears,” offered a little old lady, dressed in quiet gray that matched the silver of her waving hair and brought out the wonderful blue of her beautiful eyes, still alight with youthful fire. “Of course I never had a son, nor a daughter either, for that matter, but years ago I lived next to a little girl named Alice, and then I decided that girls were really nicer than boys.

“Alice was the brightest child, and it was my delight that she came to my home for a daily call.

“I always kept a jar of cookies in the kitchen cupboard, just in easy reach for her, for Alice was passionately fond of cookies, and especially if they boasted a raisin in the center. She always visited that cupboard as soon as she came in, and always found the jar was waiting for her with its store.

“But one day her mother told me the habit must not be allowed to grow, and so I promised faithfully to do my part.

“It was not long until Alice, her curls bobbing and her eyes dancing with fun, came running in to see me. Straight to that cupboard door she went, and opening it, was about to reach for the sweet cake when she discovered the jar empty—empty for the first time in weeks and months!

“Looking at me out of the corner of her eye, she tapped on the jar and inquired:

“‘Any tookies at home to-day?’”

“And you?” asked one of the bystanders, eager for the rest of the incident.

“Well, I—I didn’t keep my promise to help break her of the habit that day.”

“That is a good one,” seconded another woman eagerly, “and brings to my mind a story of my boys, now grown men. In those days we lived on the farm, and my sons were just old enough to venture out into the fields alone. You know what a lark it is for boys to hunt? Well, my boys developed the instinct early. One day in spring George saw a squirrel flirt its saucy tail over in the woods, and off they were after it.

“I had not noticed their absence until I saw Charles, a toddler of four, come racing down the road and turn into the dooryard.

“‘George has broked his neck! Mama, mama, George has broked his neck, he has!’ he screamed.

“‘Tell me how,’ I demanded, my heart thumping wildly.

“‘He fell off a tree. He’s broked his neck. Come quick,’ the child gave answer.

“I needed no second bidding, but frantically started for the wood lot. Charles ran along by my side, and when we came to the fence I lifted him over first, and only then thought to ask:

“Charles, how do you know his neck is broken?

“‘Well,’ he explained, ‘you see, he climbed the tree after the squirrel, and he went out too far, and the old rotten limb it just snapped and George fell and he is hurted, and he said to run and tell you to come quick. I started and then he called and said:

“‘Charles, better say my neck is broked right off. I guess then she’ll hurry, sure!’”

“The little rascal!” laughed one of the bystanders who had listened to the tale. “I don’t believe you hurried so much after that enlightening speech, did you?”

“Well, hardly. You see,” beaming, “I wasn’t so sure that his neck was broken after that!”

“Hump!” thought Billy, disgust written on his face. “These mothers are the queerest things. They tell stories by the full hour of their children as if they had the most wonderful boy or girl in the whole world. And, after all, they prove to be just about the average—nothing so exceedingly bright about any of those stories that I can see,” and off he strolled, for he meant to make his way out of the building without further delay.

He would likely have carried out this determination, but before he had proceeded half way to the door, all his sympathies were aroused by one of the exhibited babies. For whatever other faults Billy possessed, a hard heart was not one of them, and any sign of suffering brought quick sympathy from him.

“Deary, deary me! That child must have the whooping cough! What a crying shame to bring it here. It is black in the face already, and there sits its mother doing absolutely nothing for its relief. I’m sure she doesn’t know what ails the poor baby!”

Now it happened that the Treat trio had had a long siege of the disease the winter before, and Billy knew very well what to do when a paroxysm of coughing wracked the sufferer. Had he not seen Mrs. Treat, who was usually so gentle a mother, vigorously pound her offspring on their backs? And hadn’t the boys come out as hearty as ever?

So Billy resolved to take the same measures in the present case, and thereupon he backed away, gained a start, and gathering momentum with every forward step, he hurled himself pell-mell against the child. Off it went, rolling and tumbling from its mother’s lap to the floor, emitting shrill screams, though they were more from fright than from injury.

“There! It’s recovered its breath, at any rate, and that is the main thing,” was Billy’s self-congratulatory thought, but alack and alas for the philanthropically inclined goat, punishment swift and sure followed.

Cries of alarm, a general stampede among the onlookers, and an umbrella wielded by a hearty farmer hastened Billy’s ignominious flight from the scene.