“Do you want a lift?” he cried. “It’s lucky to meet one wooden leg, so four must be better still! Climb up on my wagon, and I’ll take you into the town.”
Bulka and Poor Cecco climbed up. The countryman cracked his whip, and away they went down the road. This was better than the express-wagon! The hay was as soft and springy as a feather bed. But one must take care not to fall off, and that wasn’t so easy; the wagon pitched and swayed like a ship at sea, and Poor Cecco had to cling tight with all his paws. As for Bulka, he just lay and bounced.
That was a fine way to ride into town, with all the bells on the harness jingling and the wagon wheels a creak and the driver snapping his whip. The only trouble was that Bulka, long before they passed the last milestone, began to feel seasick.
The driver pulled up his horses just past the bridge at the beginning of the town.
“Now I must put you down,” he said, “for I have to drive on to the dealer and sell my hay. So good-bye, and thank you for your company!”
And being a nice man, he reached out his arm and helped them to the ground.
By the end of the bridge a blind man was sitting, with his back against the wall, dozing in the sunshine. Beside him sat a little black dog, keeping watch over a tin can that was placed there for pennies. There were only three pennies in it as yet, for it was still early and not many
