Mr. Owens did not reply at once. With the most provoking deliberation he hitched his horse to the fence, after which he faced about, put his hands into his pockets, and looked at his son. “Bob,” said he, in a tone of voice which made the boy’s heart sink within him, “you remember the night that you and Lester went ’coon-hunting, don’t you?”
Bob started, but tried to look innocent. Fixing his eyes thoughtfully on the ground, as if he were trying hard to recall the night to which his father referred, he said, slowly:
“I can’t say that I do. We have been ’coon-hunting a good many times, you know.”
“But I have in mind one particular night on which something occurred that you will remember the longest day you live.”
Bob looked down at the ground again, and began to tremble. Knowing what was coming, he backed up against the fence, as if he feared that his father’s next words would knock him over. And they did come pretty near it.
“Well, Bob,” said Mr. Owens, “I will tell you, for your satisfaction, that you have destroyed all your chances of being mail carrier in this county. Mr. Brigham said he could not assist in placing a would-be thief in so responsible a position.”
“A thief!” gasped Bob.
“Yes. If it hadn’t been for Don Gordon’s hounds you and Lester would have broken into one of the general’s negro cabins. There’s where you were on the night you said you went ’coon-hunting. Did you know what you were about? If you had succeeded the law would have taken hold of you.”
“I didn’t do it,” exclaimed Bob, as soon as he could speak. “There’s not a word of truth in it.”
“O, you can’t face it down, and there is no use in trying. The story is all over the settlement, and when it came to Mr. Brigham’s ears this afternoon, he made Lester confess.”