We sat down in the chairs that she brought for us and answered the questions that she asked us about our folks—how well they were and what they were doing. And, of course, she had to tell me what a big boy I was getting to be. She does that every time I see her.
All the time that we were talking, Scoop was squinting around the kitchen. I knew why. In a house where a boy lives one usually expects to see a cap or a shoe or a baseball or something like that laying around on the floor. But there were no boy’s things in this room.
“It must be kind of lonesome for you,” said my companion, “living here by yourself.”
He was starting to pump the other to find out whether she was on our side or the spy’s.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Kelly.
“I don’t suppose,” the smooth one followed up, “that you keep a hired man.”
“People on three-acre farms,” the woman laughed, “don’t usually keep hired hands.”
“I should think, though,” said Scoop, “that a boy would be a big help to you in running your little farm.” [[98]]
“I had a boy last year,” said Mrs. Kelly. “But this year I have managed to do the work myself.”
It was plain to us that she didn’t intend to say anything about the boy who was living with her. So Scoop cleverly shifted the conversation to the murdered puzzle maker.