the man. When he joined his clubmates some one exclaimed, "What's that?"

It was a noise from the closet into which Wort had plunged, or, rather, a
noise that started there, for it was continued down into the story below,
even as the noise of a rushing snow-slide along a roof begins at the
ridgepole, but ends on the ground beneath the eaves.

"It's Wort!" said Charlie, excitedly. "O dear! he's gone."

"Gone where?" inquired Sid. "Into the bowels of the earth?"

Charlie's answer was to rush down stairs, followed by the club in a very
hasty and undignified way. There, at the end of a long spout that
terminated eight inches from the floor, was a couple of good-sized legs
squirming to get out. Then Wort's voice was heard, coming from the
interior of the box, "Let me out! Let me out!"

"Can't you _get_ out?" asked the governor.

"No, no! Let me out! Let me out--quick!"

It was even so. Wort must be _let_ out.

"O, Aunt Stanshy, Wort--Wort--is in the fodder-box, and can't get out!"
shrieked Charlie at the open kitchen window.

"What under the sun--" And, without a word more, Aunt Stanshy left the
clothes she was washing and rushed into the yard.

"Come here, mister, and bring your saw," she said to the man at the