"He said I was a German spy," he replied.
"Are you?"
"No." The answer was prompt enough and emphatic enough. Major Grover tugged at the corner of his mustache.
"Well, I—I admit you don't look it," he observed, dryly. "What's your name and who are you?"
Jed told his name, his place of residence and his business.
"Is there any one about here who knows you, who could prove you were who you say you are?"
Mr. Winslow considered. "Ye-es," he drawled. "Ye-es, I guess so. 'Thoph Mullett and 'Bial Hardy and Georgie T. Nickerson and Squealer Wixon, they're all carpenterin' over here and they're from Orham and know me. Then there's Bluey Batcheldor and Emulous Baker and 'Gawpy'—I mean Freddie G.—and—"
"There, there! That's quite sufficient, thank you. Do you know any of those men?" he asked, turning to the workman.
"Yes, sir, I guess I do."
"Very well. Go up and bring two of them here; not more than two, understand."