“They ought to be brought to justice,” put in old Runnell. “Nobody in these parts will be safe with such rascals at large.”
“I wonder what has become of Dan Marcy and Hiram Skeetles,” mused Harry. “It’s a wonder they are not watching us, isn’t it?”
“Guess the cold snap was too much for them,” answered Fred. “I don’t believe old Skeetles cares much for an outing anyway. He’d rather stay in town and make money.”
“I’ve heard that he has been very mean to a great many persons,” said Link. “There was one old Irish washerwoman that owed him ten or fifteen dollars and he pestered the life out of her trying to get it.”
“That’s right,” came from Teddy. “It was the Widdy O’Rourke, an’ my folks and a lot of others made up a purse for her, so she could buy a railroad ticket to Caleville, where her married daughter lives. The daughter was too poor to pay for the ticket, but she wrote that if her mother would come on she would do the best she could to give her a home.”
“And did old Skeetles get the ten or fifteen dollars?” asked Bart.
“Sure he did. He wouldn’t let her leave town till she had paid. Oh, he’s a skinflint, he is,” concluded Teddy.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
They reached the shore at a point where a long stretch of pines bent down heavily with their weight of snow. The scene was so beautiful that Harry stopped long enough to get two time exposure pictures, using very small stops, so that the outlines might be extra sharp.
“There must be a whole lot about photography,” observed old Runnell. “Those men that are in the business take fine pictures without half trying, while on the other hand I’ve been out with amateurs, as they called themselves, and they’d take picture after picture, but none of ’em seemed to amount to much. Some would be crooked, some wouldn’t be sharp and clear enough, and some would be printed too light or too dark.”