And squeal like a pig to be
let go, will you?

"Aha! You shall go," he says with a sudden laugh. "Dash me if
'twere not made o' purpose."

Joe Punchard, I have forgotten to mention, was short of stature,
standing no more than five feet three. But he was very thick-set and
heavily made, with massive arms and legs, the latter somewhat bowed,
making him appear even shorter than he was. It was these legs of his,
together with his big round head and shock of reddish hair, that
inspired some genius of the school with a couplet which was often
chanted by the boys when they caught sight of Joe in the street. It ran:

O, pi, rho, bandy-legged Joe,
Turnip and carrots wherever you go.

But bandy-legged as he was, Joe had the great strength which I have
often observed to accompany that defect of nature. So it was with
exceeding ease he lifted Cyrus Vetch, for all his struggles, with
one hand, and dropped him into a barrel that stood, newly finished,
against the wall--a barrel of such noble height that Vetch quite
disappeared within it. Then, trundling it upon its edge, as draymen
do with casks of beer, he brought it to the street, laid it
sidelong, and set it rolling.

Now the Wyle Cop at Shrewsbury, as you may know, is a street that
winds steeply down to the English Bridge over the Severn. Had it
been straight, the bias of the barrel would doubtless have soon
carried it to the side, and Joe Punchard might have risen in course
of time to the status of a master cooper in his native town. But
when I went to the door to see what was happening, there was the
barrel in full career, following the curve of the street, and
gathering speed with every yard. Joe stood with arms akimbo,
smiling broadly. Cludde was racing after the barrel, shouting for
someone to stop it.

If I had not already been in such mortal terror of the consequences
of Joe's mad freak, I should have laughed to see the wayfarers as
they skipped out of the course of the runagate, not one of them
aware as yet that it held human contents, nor guessing that the end
might be more than broken staves.

By this time Joe himself had come to a sense of his recklessness.
He gripped me by the hand, and dragged me down the hill at so
fierce a pace that in half a minute all the breath was out of my
body. I wondered what he purposed doing, for the barrel was now out
of sight past the bend, and could scarce have been overtaken by the
wearer of the seven league boots. But as we