“What's this Strong says about turkeys?” demanded Sam Dickerson, sternly.
“'Tain't so!” declared Pete. “I ain't seen no turkeys.”
“I have found them,” said Hiram, quietly. “And the coopful is down yonder in your lot. You thought to fool me by turning into our farm from the direction of Scoville, and driving back that way; but you turned around in the road under that overhanging oak, where I picked Lettie Bronson off the back of the runaway horse last Spring.
“Now, those ten turkeys belong to Sister. She'll be heart-broken if anything happens to them. You have played me several mean tricks since I have been here, Pete Dickerson——”
“No, I ain't!” interrupted the boy.
“Who took the burr off the end of my axle and let me down in the road that night?” demanded Hiram, his rage rising.
Pete could not forbear a grin at this remembrance.
“And who tampered with our pump the next morning? And who watched and waited till we left the lower meadow that night we burned the rubbish, and then set fire to our woods——”
Mrs. Dickerson screamed again. “I knew that fire never come by accident,” she moaned.
“You shut up, Maw!” admonished her hopeful son again.