“Perhaps they’ve gone away with the haul,” muttered Bob. “The only way is to go up and find out.”
So they marched boldly across the stumpy field to the cabin, and knocked.
“Entrez!” cried a voice from within, and Bob pushed open the door.
There was a startled exclamation from within. Larue rose from a seat where he was doing something with a large piece of buckskin, and he looked black as he saw the two boys standing armed in the doorway. His wife, a tall, rather handsome and shabbily-dressed woman, stopped short in the middle of the floor, looking frightened. Two pretty, gipsy-like children slunk into the background.
“Bon jour! bon jour!” said both Bob and Carl politely.
“Bon jour,” responded the squatter, and his face softened a little. “What do you want? You speak French?”
“Only a little—not enough to talk,” replied Bob. “Mr. Larue, our house was broken into while we were away, and about a thousand pounds of honey stolen—over $200 worth. We came to see if you knew anything about it.”
“Me? How should I know anyt’ing about zat?” returned Larue.
It was hard to put the accusation direct, and Bob hesitated a little.
“The honey was taken away by boat. You have a boat, and you’re the only person that lives down this way, so—”