"What does it look like?" the elderly man snapped back. "It's an old
well."
"A _well!_" the trooper exclaimed as he rushed to the spot. "And not
even covered? What're you trying to do--kill people?"
The old man sniffed. "Used to be covered, but the lid's gone. Didn't
expect to have a bunch of nosy fellers pokin' around down here!"
The state trooper muttered angrily under his breath as he shone his
flashlight into the well-shaft. Bud was splashing around below, soaked
and chagrined by his accident.
"Give me a hand!" he called up.
The trooper reached down, but was barely able to touch Bud's finger
tips. To make matters worse, the sides of the well were slippery with
moss.
"Get a rope," the trooper ordered the old man.
"Ain't got one."
The policeman reddened and stood up to his full six-foot-two. "Look,
mister--what's your name?"
The elderly man shrank back, as if suspecting that the trooper's
patience might have been tried too far. "Ben Smith," he mumbled.
"Okay, Mr. Smith, you get a rope or something else to pull this boy out.
And fast!"
Ben Smith gulped on his chewing tobacco and hurried off. A minute or so
later he returned with a length of clothesline. The trooper lowered it
into the well and Bud was soon climbing out, looking like a drenched
rat.
"Sorry, son," Smith said apologetically. "Guess I should have warned
ye."
Bud chuckled good-naturedly.
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