Larkland mill had served the whole community in peace and war, and it was loved with a personal feeling. Had not the children even had a birthday party in its honor at Happy Acres, not so long ago? For it to deal out poison was like a father’s giving it to his children.
Not that the mill was to blame. Of course not.
Who could have taken advantage of it and put glass in its flour? No one could even guess. Mr. Spotswood had not seen any suspicious person around—only the usual frequenters of the mill, which included all the men of the community, white and black. The evildoer, a stranger and an outsider of course, must have come in the shielding twilight or the covering night. Nothing easier. The mill was near the highway; the doors stood wide open all day, and shutting them at night was a mere matter of form; there were a dozen easy ways of ingress.
Day after day passed and brought no trace of the criminals. There was a growing feeling of uneasiness throughout the community. Whispers went about, tales circulated among the Village loafers, the source and foundation of which no one could give, but which were repeated, at first doubtingly; but they were told over and over again and gained credence with each repetition until they were believed like gospel truth. These tales were about Black Mayo and his guest.
Dick was in the back room of Mr. Blair’s store one morning, picking over apples to pay for some candles. He was daydreaming about the mine, and at first was only conscious of voices in the front room, without really hearing the conversation. But presently he heard Mrs. Blair ask excitedly, “Agnes, have you heard these shameful tales about Black Mayo?�
Shameful tales about Cousin Mayo! Dick listened now.
“What do you mean?� asked Mrs. Wilson.
“People are saying—— Oh, Will! tell her. I am too furious to talk!�
“Jake Andrews is accusing Mayo of being disloyal, a suspicious character that ought to be watched, arrested.�
“Mayo watched, arrested! Mayo! Jake Andrews accuses him! And, pray, who is Jake Andrews?�