“Did he though? Now that beats me. I s’pose you was there, and see’d him dew it?”
“Not I, sir, but a small boy, who had been in the doctor’s employ, saw the doctor’s nephew set fire to the building.”
“Wal, the lad might have been bribed tew tell all that, you know. I’ve hearn the hull story two or three times, and I hope I may be shot for a chicken-thief ef the young man done the job.”
“Dare you assert that he did not do it?”
“Yas.”
Jim McCabe started visibly at this cool affirmation, and for an instant his naturally red face was almost pale. But he was quickly himself again, and with an incredulous smile, he muttered:
“Pshaw! the cursed fool don’t know what he’s talking about.”
Then he turned on his heel again, and this time he was off and walking briskly away before the Yankee could detain him. Jonathan Boggs looked after him for a moment with a curious expression on his face, and then turning aside, he boldly entered the house of Mr. Moreland, without so much as knocking at the door.
Jim McCabe had not proceeded far, after leaving his new acquaintance so abruptly, before he met another person who stopped him. This was a small boy, about fourteen years of age, who wore a jaunty cap, a green jacket, and corduroy knee-breeches, which revealed his nationality as plainly as did his face. He was a bright-looking little fellow, with intelligent blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and, in fact, was no less a personage than Mike Terry, the former servant of Doctor Trafford. He it was who had furnished the evidence that convicted his master’s murderer.
“The top iv the mornin’ to yeez, Jamie,” said the young Hibernian, as he met McCabe.