"He says your letter sounds as though you would do just that."
"My letter?"
"Mr. Marks says the letter came from you."
"Why, Neale, you know I ain't no writest," gasped the farmer. "It ain't possible he thinks I'd write him about a peck or two of strawberries? They was some of my best and earliest ones, and I was mad enough about it at the time; but, shucks! old Bob Buckham ain't mean enough to harry a pack of gals about sech a thing, I should hope!"
Neale stared at him with a look of satisfaction on his face.
"Don't mean to tell me that Pretty thinks that of me, do ye?" added the old gentleman, much worried.
"Yes, sir. She thinks you sent the letter."
"Wal! she treats me mighty nice, then. I'd des-arve snubbin'—I most surely would—at her han's if she thinks I am that mean. She's a mighty nice gal."
"She's the best little sport ever, Aggie is!" declared the boy, enthusiastically. Then he added: "I knew it wasn't like you to do such a thing, and it's puzzled me. But somebody wrote in your name and listed all the girls that raided your berry patch—but one."
"All but one gal?"