“What is the occasion of this effusive welcome to your city?” asked Farr.
The man who held one of the captive's arms was panting. He had run at top speed from the house to which he and his mates had borne the injured man.
“You thief! You sneak! Eat a man's grub, his hard-earned grub, and steal when his wife's back is turned!”
“Of all dirty work this job is the worst,” declared the big man.
“She gave you all you could stuff into yourself, you loafer. You ransacked when her back was turned. You even stole her husband's Sunday suit. Where is it?”
“I saw a fat tramp running away into the woods,” returned Farr, quietly. “He was carrying articles in his arms.”
“You're the only tramp in sight around here,” insisted the contractor. “Where did you hide the plunder?”
“She said she fed a tramp. She left him at the back door. You're the sneak,” indorsed the panting emissary.
“If you will take me back to the house you may get some new light on the affair,” suggested their captive. “You need not drag me there. I'll go with much pleasure.”
The mistress of the despoiled home, red of eyes, hurrying from her sink with a cold compress in her trembling hands, viewed Farr from her back door.