"Do you know him?" asked the major.
"Know him?" Mr. Wixon guffawed again. "Known him all my life. He lives over to Orham. Makes windmills and whirlagigs and such for young-ones to play with. HE ain't any spy. His name's Jed Winslow, but we always call him 'Shavin's,' 'count of his whittlin' up so much good wood, you understand. Ain't that so, Shavin's? Haw, haw!"
Jed regarded Mr. Wixon mournfully.
"Um-hm," he admitted. "I guess likely you're right, Squealer."
"I bet you! There's only one Shavin's in Orham."
Jed sighed. "There's consider'ble many squealers," he drawled; "some in sties and some runnin' loose."
Major Grover, who had appeared to enjoy this dialogue, interrupted it now.
"That would seem to settle the spy question," he said. "You may go, all three of you," he added, turning to the carpenters. They departed, Jed's particular enemy muttering to himself and Mr. Wixon laughing uproariously. The major once more addressed Jed.
"Where is the little girl you were with?" he asked.
"Eh? Oh, she's over yonder just 'round the p'int, sailin' a shingle boat I made her. Shall I call her?"