“Hoo, hoo, yerself!” croaked a voice. “I’d have yez know we kape no owls on these premises.”
The bent figure of Mr. Murphy, always busy at his bench, was visible through the back window of his shop.
“Is it that young yahoo called Neale O’Neil that yez want, Miss Aggie?” added the smiling cobbler. “If so—”
But Neale O’Neil appeared just then to answer to the summons of his girl friend. He had been to the store, and he tumbled all his packages on Con’s bench to run out into the yard to greet Agnes.
“What’s happened now?” he cried, seeing in the girl’s face that something out of the ordinary troubled her.
“Oh, Neale! what do you think?” she gasped. “There’s been another of them at the house.”
“Not one of those Gypsies?”
“I believe she was.”
“Oh! A she!” said the boy, much relieved. “Well, she didn’t bite you, of course?”
“Come here and look at this,” commanded his friend.