“Why, I'll tell you, Mr. Dickerson,” said Hiram, quickly. “Somebody's stolen our turkeys—ten of them. And I have found them down there where your turkeys roost. The natural inference is that somebody here knows about it——”
Dickerson—just out of his bed and as ugly as many people are when they first get up—leaped for the young farmer from the porch, and had him in his grip before Hiram could help himself.
The woman screamed. There was a racket in the house, for some of the children had been watching from the window.
“Dad's goin' to lick him!” squalled one of the girls.
“You come here and intermate that any of my family's thieves, do you?” the angry man roared.
“Stop that, Sam Dickerson!” cried his wife. She suddenly gained courage and ran to the struggling pair, and tried to haul Sam away from Hiram.
“The boy's right,” she gasped. “I heard Pete tellin' little Sam last night what he'd done. It's come to a pretty pass, so it has, if you are goin' to uphold that bad boy in thieving——”
“Hush up, Maw!” cried Pete's voice from the house.
“Come out here, you scalawag!” ordered his father, relaxing his hold on Hiram.
Pete slouched out on the porch, wearing a grin that was half sheepish, half worried.