“Do you think he really was at the fowls, Jacob?”
“I dunno,” replied Jacob, “what kinder evidence you’d want to prove it; but I ketched him with a Leghorn hen in one hand an’ yer Spanish rooster in the other, coming’ outer the fowlhouse, an’ I reckon that’s strong enough for me; I reckon it’s strong enough to ’ang the varmint on.”
“Whose boy are you?” asked the farmer’s wife. “Where do you come from?”
“I can’t speak,” growled Tom, “he’s chokin’ me.”
“Don’t hurt him, Jacob!” pleaded the good wife, in a sympathetic voice. “He’s only a child.”
“He’s a derned old-fashioned child,” observed the farmer, taking a fresh grip of his prize. “There, now, let’s hear what you got to say for yourself. Who are you? What is your name?”
“Robinson,” replied Tom, tearfully, “Will Robinson.”
“Robinson!” repeated the man. “There ain’t any Robinsons round here. Where did you come from?”
“I came from the Richmond,” replied Tom, readily.
“What were you doin’ up there?”