"Mr. Marcy, we want to have a talk with you," said Dave, coldly. "I guess you remember me."
"I do. You're the lad I once had locked up in my smokehouse," and the farmer grinned slightly.
"Yes. But I am not here about that now,—nor am I here to tell you that I was one of the boys that found your mule when he was lost and sent you word. I am here to ask you about the shooting that took place about a week ago."
"Shooting!"
"Exactly. Who were the boys who came here and told you to go to the end of your farm and shoot at a lot of innocent lads having a little fun by themselves?"
"Why—er—— See here, what do you mean?" blustered Mike Marcy.
"I mean just what I say, Mr. Marcy, and I want you to answer my question."
"Eh! Say, do you see this whip?" stormed the farmer. "I'll let ye taste it in a minit!"
"You'll do nothing of the kind," answered Dave, coolly. "I ask you a question and you must answer it. This is a serious business. You fired three shots at a crowd of innocent schoolboys who were harming nobody. You cannot deny it."