to
the woods and dropped it. Another man came along and picked it up and
put it on. Then he walked through the thicket and came up with Mr.
Pritchard. He knew where Mr. Pritchard was because Mr. Pritchard had
just shot his little rifle at a hawk or something. He stabbed Mr.
Pritchard, and then walked down hill and climbed up on a stump to look
around. He was facing down hill. He saw Mr. Kincaid and Curly way below.
Just then his cap was knocked off by another bullet."

"What other bullet?" interposed the prosecution sharply.

"That was just an accident," said Bobby confusedly, "it happened to hit.
It wasn't shot at him at all."

"You mean a spent ball from somewhere else? Who shot it? Where did it
come from?"

"I'll 'splain that in a minute. Then he ran as fast as he could----"

That was as far as Bobby got for the moment. A slight confusion at one
of the doors interrupted him. Almost immediately it died, but before
Bobby could resume, the sheriff elbowed his way forward.

"Laughton--you know, that second witness, the fellow who worked for
Pritchard--tried to get out. I have him in charge."

"Hold him," said the judge. The sheriff elbowed his way back down the
aisle.

"How do you know all this?" began the prosecuting attorney.

"If Mr. Kincaid wore the cap, why isn't his head hurt?" demanded Bobby.

"If the shot was fired by Pritchard, when lying on the ground,"
explained the attorney, "it would not have scraped."

"But it wasn't," persisted Bobby. "It was fired from down hill, and
about thirty feet away. That would hit the man, wouldn't it?" he
appealed.

"Certainly."

"Well, is Mr. Kincaid hurt?"

"This, your honour," said the attorney with some impatience, "is beside
the mark----"

He was interrupted by a cry from Bobby.

"He's gone!" he wailed, pointing his hand toward the seat where Laughton
had been sitting.

"Was that the man?" asked the judge.

"Yes," said Bobby, "and he's gotten away."

"Mr. Sheriff," said the judge, "examine the man for a scar or wound on
the head."

The sheriff disappeared. The clock tick-tocked away five minutes, then
ten. Finally the door swung open.

"Your Honour," said the sheriff clearly, across the court-room, "the man
has confessed."

XXVI

THE SIXTEEN GAUGE SHOTGUN

Bobby and his friend, Johnny English, sat on the floor of Bobby's
chamber reviewing the exciting events of the afternoon. In the tumult
following the sheriff's announcement, Bobby