"You saw my son shoot the guinea fowl?"
"No, sir—that is, sir, I ain't sure. Mr. Jasper he asked me who I thought the boys was, and I told him I didn't get close enough to see, but I fancied one was Bobby Carter, because they run this way, and I thought I recognized Master Bobby's legs as he crawled under the hedge. I told Mr. Jasper it was only guess, but he was mad because she was one of his prize hens, and he said he'd just drop a line to you and let you investigate. It was dangerous, he said, if Master Bobby was playin' with firearms, and you'd ought to know it."
"Yes, certainly; I understand."
Mr. Carter raised his voice and called to the boy who was visible sprawling on a bench by the tennis-court.
"Bobby! Come here."
He pulled himself together with obedient haste and advanced to meet his father, somewhat apprehensively, as his eye fell upon Patrick.
"Bobby, here is a note from Mr. Jasper. He says that some boys were shooting at a target on his beach this morning and killed one of his prize guinea fowls. He is not sure, but he thinks that you may have been one of them. How about it?"
Bobby looked uncomprehending for a moment while he covertly studied Patrick. The man's air was apologetic; his accusation was evidently based upon suspicion rather than proof.
"I went crabbing with Bert Holliday this morning," said Bobby.
"Ah!" his father's face cleared, though he still maintained his stern tone. "I gave you strict orders, you remember, never to touch my revolver when I was not with you?"