"No. I was _fixing_ the bullocks, and I've _fixed_ the wagon . . . I forgot the tiger lilies." There was no anger in Spoof's voice, but a sort of sadness that made us a little ashamed of our sport with him the day before. "Tell us how it happened," we said, dismounting and turning our oxen to feed along with his at a nearby heap of hay. "We're sorry." Spoof was himself again. "Of course you are," he rejoined, laughing. "All my fault. How shall I report this to the Governor? I know; I shall say I drove over a Canadian double-orbed firefly--one must throw in a touch of detail, for its realistic effect--and the spark ignited the hay. By the way, how much does a bally wagon cost? A hundred pounds?" "Oh, no. You can get a good one for a hundred dollars or less, and perhaps a second-hand----" "But I mean for the purposes of a communication to the Governor?" We agreed that for such a purpose the value of a wagon was one hundred pounds. "It happened like this," Spoof explained. "The bullocks decided to have their afternoon siesta as usual, and were unresponsive to all my blandishments. Then I remembered your simple remedy--the remedy which you said would be sure to fix them. So I brought an armful of hay, spread it impartially under both of them, set fire to it, and stood back for results. "The process was a very interesting one. At first they seemed to think it was flies, but when their kicking and switching proved ineffectual they gently moved forward just far enough to bring the wagon, half full of hay, over the fire. Then they resumed their slumbers. "Well, I paused a moment, wondering whether I should let nature take its course and have grilled steak for supper, but I decided that I was in more need of steak on the hoof than in the platter. So I crowded in and unhitched them, and got my eye-brows singed for my pains." "Good boy, Spoof!" said I. "You couldn't have done more than that." Whereupon Spoof turned on me a look of gratitude out of all proportion to my remark. "It's good of you to say that. I felt that I had been rather an ass, don't you know? I was quite sure you would see the smoke. . . . Well,--I say, let's go in and have some tea." So we had tea, with bread and jam, and afterwards Spoof insisted upon reading paragraphs from _Punch_. "It's a different kind of humor, don't you know?" he would say, when we failed to laugh at the right moment; "nothing to do with buffalo bones or tiger lilies, or gophers tied by their hind legs to the corner stakes of one's farm. But then, we English are a peculiar people; we can have a joke without making a bonfire over it." "That is just what you, personally, didn't do," Jack reminded him. "It was your bonfire, not ours."