“Tramps? On this road ag’in?” Andy Dugan was all attention and his face grew sober. “Tell me about thim at onct!”
The boys entered the farmhouse, where were collected the Dugan family, consisting of Mrs. Dugan, who weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, and seven children, including three half-grown sons. All listened with close attention to what the Westmore boys had to relate.
“Th’ schamps!” cried Andy Dugan. “Sure an’ they should be in the town jail! An’ was the watch an’ chain worth much?”
“Twelve or fifteen dollars. And a birthday present, too.”
“I’ll go after thim, that I will. Pat, git me gun, and you go an’ take yer own gun, too—an’, Teddy, git the pistol, an’ see if it’s after bein’ loaded. We’ll tache thim scallywags a lisson, so we will!”
“That’s the talk, Mr. Dugan!” said Joe, brightening. “But you’ll have to hurry, or they’ll be gone.”
“I’ll hurry all I can, lad. But phat about you? You’re too tired to walk back, ain’t ye?”
“Lit thim roide the mare, Andy,” came from Mrs. Dugan. “Th’ mare wants exercise annyway.”
“So they shall, Caddy,” answered the husband, and one of the smaller boys of the family was sent to bring the mare forth.
In less than ten minutes the party was ready to set out, Andy Dugan and his son Pat with guns, Teddy, who boasted of a face that was nothing but a mass of freckles, with the pistol, and Joe and Harry, on the mare’s back, with clubs.