“No, I do not,” answered the officer. “I shall probably—”
At this point Uncle Ruben interrupted him. He was no less astonished than the others were by the incidents that had transpired during the last few minutes, and he was angry and disgusted, too.
He had come up there on purpose to find the chickens, which he had killed himself, in order that he might have some excuse for accusing George of robbing his hen-roost, and his failure to produce the evidence he had so carefully prepared exasperated him. It looked now as though his nephew was going to get off scot free.
“Look here, Newton,” exclaimed Uncle Ruben, “ain’t you goin’ to arrest George, too?”
The officer replied very decidedly that he was not.
“What for?” demanded Uncle Ruben.
“Because I understand my business, and have no desire to put an innocent boy to any trouble.”
“Well, it’s mighty strange where my two Plymouth Rock chickens have gone to. They was wuth two dollars,” whined Uncle Ruben, who thought quite as much of money as Mr. Stebbins did.
The sheriff made no reply. Addressing himself to George, he said:
“I shall probably need your services on Monday morning.”