“It might have been,” admitted the farmer, “if them other lads had knowed what to do, but before a man got there it was too late. And Ezra certainly sot some store by that bright-faced little Jim; everybody keered for him, he was so winnin’ in his ways.”
“Well,” continued Mr. Witherspoon with a smile, for he was certain of his ground by this time, and the whip hung listlessly alongside the farmer’s leg; “we made so good an impression on Mr. Brush that early this morning his man Bill came over with a basket, and also this note. Please read it, sir.”
He placed the paper in the other’s hand; and leaning down so that the waning light of the setting sun might fall on the writing the farmer seemed to take in the contents of the note.
When he looked up he no longer scowled, but let his eyes rove around at the faces of the scouts, all filled with eager anticipation.
“Well, I was wrong to say what I did, I owns up,” he commenced, making a wry face, as though it was rather an unusual thing for him to admit being anything but right; “and since I promised to apologize to ye, boys I’m ready to do it. Chickens all looks alike after they’ve been plucked and the heads cut off; but ’cordin’ to what that note reads these here are Brush fowls and not from the Perkins coop.”
Mr. Witherspoon nodded his head, and his eyes twinkled.
“Are you satisfied to accept Mr. Perkins’ apology, boys, in the same spirit in which it is given?” he asked, looking at his charges.
Of course there was an immediate response, and in the affirmative too. Boys are not apt to harbor any deep resentment, once the accusation is withdrawn.
“There, you see these boys are not the ones to hold it against you, Mr. Perkins,” the scout master continued.
“Did you see the thieves who were in your hen house last night, Mr. Perkins?” asked Tom, as though he had some object in making the inquiry.