Behind the arrant ones in mad chase and consternation came the young negro lad whose duty it was to see that the cattle were properly housed at nightfall.  He had gone to the meadow for his charges only to find these incorrigibles, as upon many another occasion, missing.  How long they had been at large he could not guess.  At last, after long search, he discovered them in the inclosure where the barreled apples were kept and two whole barrels rifled.  When this had taken place his African mind did not analyze, though a scientist could have told him almost to an hour and explained also that in the cows’ double stomachs the apples had promptly fermented and become highly intoxicating, with the present result.  But poor Cicero was petrified.  His young mistress entertaining “de quality” and his unruly charges scandalizing her by tearing into their very midst.

“Moo—­o—­moo, e—­moooo—­” bellowed Betsy, making snake tracks across the lawn.

“Moo, Moo, Moo, Moo, Mooee—­” echoed Sally in lively staccato, doing a wild Highland fling with quite original steps.

“Hi dar!  Come ’long away.  Get off en dat lawn.  Come away from dat ’ar pa’ty,” screamed Cicero.  “Ma Lawd-a-mighty, dem cows gwine ‘grace me an’ ruin me fer evah,” and it would doubtless have proved true had not the boys sprung to their feet to join in the cowherd’s duties, only too ready for any prank which presented an outlet for their fun-loving souls.  Shortie promptly took command of the defending forces, and crying: 

“Come on, fellows, head the old lady off before she knocks the table endwise,” was off with a rush, the others hotfoot after him, waving arms and shouting until poor old Betsy Brindle’s addled head must have thought all the imps of the lower regions turned loose upon her.  Circling wide, the boys made a complete barrier beyond which the poor tipsy cow dared not force her way.  So with a hopelessly pathetic “moo” and a look at her adversaries which might have done credit to the mock turtle of Lewis Carrol’s creation, she surrendered forthwith, and promptly flopped down in the middle of the lawn.

Not so her daughter.  Not a bit of it!  She had not finished her fling and never did madder chase ensue than the one which at length ended in effectually cornering the flighty one.

“Lemme tote her home.  Fer de Lawd’s sake, sah, lemme tote her home quick, ‘fore Unc’ Jess an’ Missie Peggy kill me daid,” begged Cicero.

“You tote her home, you spindly little shaver!  She’d part her cable and go adrift in half a minute after you got under way.  Come on, boys, we’ve got to convoy this craft into her home port.  Make fast,” and with the experience of three years’ training in seamanship, Shortie and his companions proceeded to make fast the recalcitrate Sally, and amidst hoots and yells calculated to sober up the most hopeless inebriate, they led her to her barn where Cicero read her the riot act as he fastened her in her stall.  Meanwhile Betsy had succumbed to slumber and at Dr. Llewellyn’s suggestion was left to sleep off the effects of her over-indulgence.  When the boys got back from the barn poor Peggy was run unmercifully.