“’Tain’t you they’re looking at,” returned the man, in a voice as solemn as though he were chief mourner at a funeral.
“Then who is it?”
“Harry Watson.”
“What about him?”
“You know as well as I do.”
Too familiar with his neighbors not to know that something of unusual seriousness was afoot, Mr. Martin laid his hand heavily upon Zeke’s shoulder.
“I want you to tell me what people are saying about Harry Watson, and what all this mysterious whispering means?” declared the patriarchal man in stern tones.
Realizing that it would be folly to try to deceive the village Nestor, Zeke looked uneasily about him, then cleared his throat, preparatory to speaking.
“Well, it’s this way, Luther,” he began in a whining voice. “They are saying as how you’re holding Harry Watson until the constable can come and arrest him.”
Both Paul and the boy against whom the breath of suspicion had been directed could not help but hear what passed between Mr. Martin and the man with whom he was talking, and as the latter explained the action of the rest of the spectators, Harry staggered back as though he had been struck a blow in the face.