"I'm afraid we did strike the wrong house, Sam," said Mr. Daddles, "you see—"
"You betcher struck the wrong house,—you're right there, fast enough," said a little man, who was hopping up and down in his excitement. He was the only one of them who was not holding one of us. He had short, paint-brush whiskers, and I remembered him as the man in the shanty,—the one whom Mr. Daddles called "black- hearted Gregory the Gauger."
"You ought to be ashamed of yerself," said he, "leadin' boys into crime!"
"Do you mean me?" asked Mr. Daddles.
"Yas—I mean you,—in the white pants," he replied, looking with great scorn at Mr. Daddles's duck trousers, "I've heard how you perfessional crooks git boys to climb up on water spouts an' let yer in. I seen yer jest after yer passed my place, an' I knowed what yer was up to."
"Well, you are quite wrong,—you're way off," said Mr. Daddles, very seriously. "I don't suppose it will do any good, but it will save you people from making yourselves ridiculous. It's all true, —what I told you. I thought we were getting into Mr. Peabody's house, and he IS my uncle. See here,—do you think we LOOK like burglars?"
"Can't tell what yer look like," said a man, "'we caught yer in—"
"In partiseps criminy," said Gregory the Gauger, "that's what it was. An' whatever you look like, you'll look different tomorrer mornin'. I don't cal'late you know anything about breakin' an' enterin' Dr. Bigelow's last night?"
"No, we don't. We weren't here last night."
"Course not, course not. Nor about bustin' into the Ellis place last Sat'day night?"