"Come, Tom," said one.

"Now for it," said another.

"No backing out," said a third.

"It's only eight rails high," said a fourth.

Still, somehow or other, Tom could not get his courage quite up to the
point. The best thing he could have done, in my way of thinking, when
he found himself so completely cornered was to have said, "Well,
boys, there's no use in mincing the matter at all. I am a little
dunce. I can no more jump over that fence than I can build a steamboat
or catch a streak of lightning." But that was not his way of getting
out of the scrape.

"Let me give the word now," said one of the lads. "I'll say 'one, two,
three,' and when I come to 'three,' you shall run and jump."

"Go ahead," said Tom.

And the other boy began: "_One--two--three_"--

Tom started, and ran. I'm not sure but he had boasted so much about
his jumping, that he had almost made himself believe he really could
jump over that fence. At any rate, he tried it, and--failed, of
course. His feet struck the fence about three quarters of the distance
from the ground, and over he went, head foremost, into the goat
pasture. It was fortunate for him that he did not break his neck. As
it was, his _spirit_ was broken, and that was about all. He went home