“Gabriel’s bit,” said Mr. Willing calmly, holding it aloft, “has been painted.”
“Painted!” cried Shirley.
“Yes. That is the reason you noticed there was something wrong with him. That is the reason he staggered a moment ago. He is sick. Now, who is responsible for this piece of treachery?”
For a moment there was no reply. Then Shirley, taking a long breath, stepped forward.
“Jimmy,” she said quietly, “did I not see you talking with Mr. Jones a few moments ago?”
“Yes, Miss Shirley,” replied the boy, realizing what was coming.
Mr. Willing stepped forward with a cry of anger.
“Jones on my place again?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you, sir,” replied the boy.
“Didn’t want to worry me, eh?” Mr. Willing’s face grew red with anger. He pointed sternly toward the pike. “You,” he said to Jimmy, “get your clothes right now and get off this place before I throw you off.”