The pale face of a gray mare was visible at the opening over one of
the mangers. She was the sole recognized occupant of the stable. In
a dark corner Tunis Latham saw a huge grain box, for once the Ball
farm had supported several span of oxen and a considerable dairy
herd, its cover raised and its maw gaping wide. There was something
moving there in the murk, something fluttering.
"Come here, boy!" gasped Cap'n Ira, hurrying across the barn door.
"I'm so crippled I can't git her up, and she's dove clean to the
lower hold, tryin' to scrape out a capful o' oats for that dratted
Queen of Sheby."
"Aunt Prue!" shouted Tunis, reverting to the title he had addressed
her by in his boyhood. "It's never her?"
A muffled voice stammered:
"Get me out! Get me out!"
"Heave hard, Tunis! All together now!" gasped Cap'n Ira, as the
younger man reached over the old woman's struggling heels and seized
her around the waist.
"Up she comes!" continued the excited old man, as though he were
bossing a capstan crew starting one of the _Susan Gatskill's_
anchors.
Tunis Latham set Prudence Ball on her feet, but the old woman was
forced to lean against the stalwart young man for a minute. She
addressed her husband in some heat.
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