"It's a wonder you do not blame it on my son Percy!" sneered the squire.
"I do blame it on him," retorted Ralph. "He is the only enemy who would do such a thing."
"More of the scheme to get my son into trouble. You see how it is, gentlemen; he is a thorough young rascal!" exclaimed the squire.
"It's awful!" murmured Postmaster Hooker. "It's a good thing we intend to act on this matter, squire."
"Yes, we can't let it rest another minute," returned Squire Paget.
And on the three men passed, leaving Ralph more bitter in heart than ever.
The young bridge tender returned to work, sending Bob Sanderson to the cottage with instructions to buy what glass was needed, and put it in, taking the money out of the twenty-dollar bill Horace Kelsey had given him that morning.
The afternoon slipped by quietly, and at sundown Sanderson came back to relieve Ralph as usual.
"The glass is all in, and here is the change," said he, and handed over sixteen dollars and a half. "Had to pay three dollars and a half for glass, tacks, and putty."
"But your pay, Mr. Sanderson——"