“Did you see anybody go down that way?”
“Don’t believe I did—savin’ you yourself, Ruthie.”
“I left a manuscript and my pen on the table there. I ran out to meet Tom and Helen when they came.”
“I seen you,” said Ben.
“Then it was just about that time that somebody sneaked into that summer-house and stole those things.”
“I didn’t see anybody snuck in there,” declared Ben, with more confidence than good English.
“Say!” ejaculated Tom, impatiently, “haven’t you seen any tramp, or straggler, or Gypsy—or anybody like that?”
“Hi gorry!” suddenly said Ben, “I do remember. There was a man along here this morning —a preacher, or something like that. Had a black frock coat on and wore his hair long and sort o’ wavy. He was shabby enough to be a tramp, that’s a fact. But he was a real knowledgeable feller—he was that. Stood at the mill door and recited po’try for us.”
“Poetry!” exclaimed Tom.
“To you and Uncle Jabez?” asked Ruth.