“Who done it?” echoed Mr. Bailey. “That grinnin’ sea demon on the prow o’ that ship is who done it.”
“Rubbish, Fred!” Mr. Seymour came out with his flat denial. But he looked very grave. “I don’t like to believe there is a sneak thief in the neighborhood; in fact, I can’t believe it.”
And even gentle Mrs. Seymour was indignant. Her eyes shone with sympathy as she said, “And these things are too unkind for any one to have done them with the idea that he was playing a practical joke. Your Sunday dinner! How mean!”
“Practical jokes? Sneak thieves?” Mr. Bailey repeated scornfully. “I told you what’s been troubling everything around here. It’s that devil figurehead.”
“Bailey! I never would have thought you capable of such superstition. It comes from living alone so much, I suppose, and being so close to the sea and the sky. Are you going to be frightened by the mischief of some bold rascal of a woodchuck or stray dog? Put the cheese on the kitchen table, Ben. Before we throw it away I want to examine it and see whether there are marks of fingers or claws and teeth, to try to get some clue to who or what has been handling it.”
“Who or what about says the whole of it,” said Mr. Bailey as he turned away to go back to his farm work.
Ann thought that he looked very tired and anxious. Why had that ship ever come to his shore to worry him? She wished more than ever that she could do something to solve the mystery; she hoped still to accomplish what she had promised herself to do, but she was so slow about it!
“What are you going to do, Jo?” Ben called after him.
“Goin’ down to the beach to get a load of small pebbles and sand—want to come?”
“Yes, of course I do,” answered Ben, forgetting that half of his time lately had been given to painting.