“Then I seen suthin’ that puzzled me. Out from th’ house come a feller who wasn’t dressed like a tramp. He was—well, he was dressed as good as you be,” and the farmer looked at Larry approvingly. “Thinks I t’ myself, this must be th’ boss tramp. Then I see him sort of talkin’ t’ th’ others, and pretty soon one of ’em come out with a cannon.”
“A cannon!” exclaimed Larry, wondering if the men of whom the farmer was speaking were desperate enough to fortify the house they occupied.
“Yep; leastways it looked like a cannon. It was on wheels, and it was black, an’ it had a muzzle to it.”
“Well, th’ well-dressed feller, he took it down the road a piece, an’ then he aimed it at th’ house.”
“What happened next?” asked Larry, full of curiosity.
“That’s the queer part of it. Here’s where the boy comes in. The feller trained the cannon on th’ house, an’ them tramps didn’t seem t’ mind it a bit. They went right on gettin’ their meal, drawin’ water, an’ choppin’ wood, and what not. Fust time I ever see tramps work without being made.”
“But about the boy?” cried Larry impatiently.
“I’m comin’ t’ him,” said the farmer. “Arter a bit one of th’ tramps went in th’ house, an’ th’ others sort of disappeared. Then, all t’ once I see a little feller, somewhat smaller than you, runnin’ out of that house t’ beat th’ band.
“Out of th’ old weed-grown front yard he come, and then he began t’ leg it down th’ road, straight toward th’ feller that was standin’ by the cannon. Thinks I t’ myself he’ll be shot sure. That’s what th’ cannon’s for, I thinks, an’ I were jest a goin’ t’ yell, when I see a whole lot of them tramps come streamin’ out from behind th’ house, an’ they chases arter th’ poor lettle feller who was runnin’ t’ beat th’ band.