“Yes, my dear.”
“The people up at the settlement say they do, and that they can’t keep any fowls at all.”
“Then that’s it,” cried Sarah, triumphantly; “and I was right about that smell a few nights ago.”
“What smell?”
“Of something roasting in the lean-to shed where those two sleep.”
“Nonsense, Sarah! It was squirrel or something of that kind that they had knocked down and cooked.”
“No, my dear; it was exactly like roast chicken, and I’m very much afraid—”
“So am I, Sarah, that you are going to make a mistake. I don’t believe either of them would steal. Ah! Here comes Pomp all in a hurry about something.—What is it?”
“Hi! Find um, Mass’ George,” cried the boy, who was in a high state of excitement.
“Find what?” I cried.