How proud she felt when they reached the Centre and the men on the street nodded to Uncle Eb! She wondered if they knew that the pumpkins were all hers, and that she would soon have the money for them. Only once in her life had she ever had any money of her own, and that was only ten cents, which had looked as big as a silver dollar when she first spied it lying at the road-side. Now they had passed the post-office and were slowly climbing the Weymouth hill toward the depot. The Centre lay in a deep valley, with the railroad skirting the top of the hill to the east. It was a steep, smooth hill, and the backs of the horses straightened and strained under the crupper straps. Marty puckered up her lips and lifted on the seat, as if to ease the load of her weight. At the middle of the climb they stopped where a "thank you, ma'am," ribbed the hill. "Get up," said Uncle Eb, after the horses had rested. Just as the wheels jogged forward Marty heard a sharp crack, and then a loud plumping and plopping from behind. She looked around and gave a cry of alarm. For the back board of the wagon had broken out, and down the hill her precious pumpkins were dancing and bobbing with a mellow rumble. Before Uncle Eb could say a word, Marty sprung from the wagon and darted behind. "Stop! stop!" she shouted; but the renegade pumpkins acted as if they didn't hear a word, and rolled on down the hill. In two minutes the wagon was empty. Some of the pumpkins split open, and their rich dewy halves, full of seeds, lay gaping in the sunshine. Farther down the whole hill was speckled with bobbing bits of yellow, and the boys of the Centre had begun a hilarious chase. The pumpkins seemed possessed. They went careering through open gates and bumping against doors and casings. They broke their heads on fences and the edges of the sidewalk, and they sent Nick Dusenberry's old white team, that hadn't run away before in fifteen years, snorting up the street. All the dogs barked, and the boys shouted, and the Centre stood in its front door and cheered. Such excitement had not stirred the village since Marston's store burned down. In the middle of the hill sat Marty, each arm clasping a fat pumpkin, and the tears streaming down her freckled nose. The horses had been frightened and had run up the hill, Uncle Eb doing his best to control them. [Illustration: "OH, MY PUNKINS!" SOBBED MARTY.] "Oh, my punkins!" sobbed Marty. "Are you hurt? Can I help you?" asked a pleasant voice. Marty looked up. It was the postmaster's wife. "Oh, my punkins!" choked Marty.