The officer nodded his head, but said nothing.
“There’s been a heap of this sort of work goin’ on,” continued Uncle Ruben; “an’ who knows but there’s something else hid away about here? Let’s take a look through the bushes, all of us, an’ see if we can find anything in ’em.”
Some of the party complied, moving about in a listless sort of way, and showing by all their actions that their hearts were not in the matter, while the others held the horses and awaited the result of the search in silence.
Uncle Ruben kept clear of the thicket into which he had thrown the chickens, hoping that some one would stumble upon it. Two or three men did walk through it, but they found nothing.
Then Uncle Ruben went in himself; but he, too, came out empty-handed. Beyond a doubt, some prowling fox or raccoon had been there before him and carried off the chickens.
“Well, Mr. Edwards, you don’t seem to be having very good luck,” said the sheriff, who was growing tired of this “spite-work business,” as he afterward termed it.
“No, I don’t seem to find nothing—that’s a fact,” replied the man, as he came out of the bushes, looking rather surprised and crestfallen. “Queer, too, I must say—for my hen-roost was robbed t’other night.”
While Uncle Ruben was wondering whether or not it would be safe to accuse George of having stolen and eaten the chickens, the rest of the searching party came out of the woods, one after the other.
And when they were all assembled, and were waiting for the officer to speak, Bob Howard, after holding a short consultation with Dick, stepped out where all could see him.
“Now, then, I’ve got the floor,” said he, “and I will show you how to go to the bottom of this business in less than two minutes.”