"Oh, the farmer!"
"Old Buckham?" cried Neale, startled.
"Yes," said Agnes. "Mr. Marks said so."
Neale looked both surprised and doubtful. "Then why didn't Buckham give in Trix's name, too?"
"Oh, I don't know, Neale. No use in blaming her just because she was lucky enough to escape."
"Oh, that's all right. I'll go to my Lady Beatrice, get down on my shin-bones, and beg her pardon, if I wrongfully suspect her," laughed Neale. "But, I say, Aggie! did Mr. Buckham come to see Mr. Marks about it? Did he say?"
"No. I think Mr. Marks said the farmer wrote."
"Wrote?" cried the boy. "Why, I don't believe Bob Buckham can write. He's a smart enough old fellow, but he never had any schooling. He told me so. He's not a bad sort, either. He must have been awfully mad about those strawberries to hold a grudge so long as this. I worked for him a while, you know, Aggie."
"Oh, so you did, Neale."
"Yes. I don't believe he is the sort who would make so much trouble for a bunch of girls. Somebody must have egged him on," said Neale, gloomily.