“No, lad, don’t go in there. He might kick you. Not that he’s ugly, but he’s in a strange place, and if you go in he might think you meant to harm him. Better let me do it. I know how to handle that colt.” The six little Bunkers, with their father and Adam North, stood at one side to allow Mr. Armstrong to enter the truck. In he went, speaking soothing words to the little colt. “Oh, ho, Bonnie Boy! So you thought you’d hide away and go with the six little Bunkers, did you? None of that! We want you to stay on our farm! So you tried to hide in the straw, did you, Bonnie Boy? Well, come out and I’ll give you a lump of sugar.” And out of the truck, onto the milk platform, walked Mr. Armstrong, leading by his halter the colt Bonnie Boy, as he was named. “Oh, isn’t he sweet?” cried Violet. “How old is he and where is his mother and has he any brothers and sisters and——” “Careful, Vi!” laughingly called her father. “Mr. Armstrong isn’t used to having so many questions fired at him at once.” “Oh, I don’t mind,” laughed the good-natured farmer. “But this is the only little colt I have, and his mother is down in the south pasture. Now you can pet him if you want to,” he added to the children. “He won’t kick when he’s outside here where he can see who is near him.” Up on the platform, around Bonnie Boy, crowded the six little Bunkers, and the colt rubbed his velvet-like nose against them and whinnied softly. “And to think I took him for a bear!” laughed Rose, as she stroked the glossy neck of the colt. “Well, he did look like one,” declared Russ. “Did he walk up the steps?” asked Violet. “I don’t see how he could.” “Oh, he’s a great little colt,” said Mr. Armstrong proudly. “He does all sorts of tricks. One day he got out of the pasture and walked right into the kitchen where my wife was making a cake. She thought I was coming in with my big boots on, so she didn’t turn around, and the colt put his nose on the back of her neck. She—Ha! Ha! She thought I was kissing her. Oh, ho! ho!” and the farmer laughed heartily. Then he led Bonnie Boy down the steps, the little colt making no trouble at all about treading on them. He was taken back to the pasture where his mother was waiting for him, doubtless wondering what had become of him. It was found that there was a break in the fence, just large enough for the colt to squeeze through, but not large enough for his mother, or she would have followed him. The colt had wandered about, coming up to the rear of the house, and had then made his way to the front, going up the steps of the milk platform, and so into the big straw-filled truck, which, perhaps, he thought was a new kind of barn. “Well, now we’d better be traveling,” said Mr. Bunker, when the little colt was taken away. “We don’t want to be late in meeting mother in Westfield.” Once again the six little Bunkers were on their way.