t the hired man had not observed her remark, or, if he had, probably
considered it but one of her naturally dictatorial sort.

"A reg'lar tramp, Monty?" he asked, eagerly.

"R-r-r-regular. Mis' Turner'd put her p-p-pies out to cool on the
wood-shed r-r-roof an' they was six seven of 'em, an', sir, w-w-w-when
she went t-t-t-to take 'em in one was g-one! Yes, sir! An' she seen
somethin' b-b-b-lack scooting cross lots, l-l-li-lic-lick--ety
c-c-c-ut!"

"Monty, if I were you, I wouldn't try to say 'lickety-cut,' till--"
again reproved the girl-teacher, still forgetful of secrecy. And again
Mr. Jones ignored her, asking the boy:

"Where was Bob, son of Mrs. Turner, about that time?"

"F-f-fudge! I don't know. Somewhere's r-r-round, m-maybe. But it wasn't
him. 'Twas a b-b-bigger, b-b-be-beard-d-er feller'n him."

"You said 'six seven' pies. If she didn't know how many she made how'd
she know she lost any?"

"Well, sir! An' there was old Mr. Witherspoon, d-dr-driv-in' down
mountain with a load o' c-c-carrots, he--he seen him cr-cr-cross--in'
Perkins's corn-field an' he t-thought 'twas a sc-sc-scarecrow, till it
walked. Sc-sc-sc-scarecrows couldn't do that he kn-kn-knew, an'--"

Although Eunice had done her utmost to keep the story of the brass bound
box a secret from even her own household, it was inevitable that
knowledge of it should come to the ears of the sick man, since it was
the chief interest of the many neighbors who called to see him. Yet all
he could gain from his callers was the vague suspicion each
entertained. He meant now to get at the facts of the case. Montgomery
had spread the tale, but had strangely kept silence with him, his old
chum. Montgomery should speak now, or Moses would know the reason why;
and if he still declined to explain matters he should be punished by
being left out of the next fishing-party Uncle Mose would organize--if
he ever fished again! He interrupted, saying:

"Never mind Witherspoon an' the carrots, Monty. Nor tramps, nuther.
Sence I ain't constable, to do it myself, I hope the poor creatur' won't
get 'rested. Don't know where'd he be stowed, anyway, in this benighted
Marsden, where there ain't neither a jail nor a touch to one. What I
want to know is: What did you find in Eunice's woods?"

Monty did some rapid thinking, the question had been a surprise, but he
answered, promptly:

"N-n-not-nothing."

"Montgomery Sturtevant! How dare you? An' I will say that's the first