“Not wholly,” Dorothy said, with courage. “If your name is not Smith, and your son’s name is not Smith, why did he just get a letter from the post-office addressed to Mr. John Smith?”
The boy, Poke, jumped; indeed, he almost fell off the box. His mother pinched him sharply in the leg.
“Dunno what ye mean, lady,” she whined. “Poke ain’t never got a letter in his life—I don’t believe. Has you, Poke?”
“I—I never!” gasped Poke, the lie showing plainly in his face.
“You have a letter somewhere in your pocket now,” accused Dorothy, looking at the youth directly. “Don’t deny it. I wrote it myself, so I should know. And,” she added, wheeling on the mother, who had risen and let the greens slip from her lap, “I want to know what you know about Tom Moran?”
“Tom Moran?” whispered the boy, shaking his head, and looking terrified.
But the woman wasn’t like that. She was a hard, bony-looking woman, and very tall and strong. While Dorothy was speaking she had beckoned to a black-haired, red-faced woman who stood curiously a little distance away.
“What’s wanted, Jane?” demanded this virago, coming forward.
“Here’s a poor gal out o’ her senses, I make no doubt,” said the woman who owned the name of Jane Daggett. “She—she’s firm’ off her mouth too much—that’s what she’s doin’. Sech folks oughter be restrained——”
“An’ we’ll restrain ’em!” declared the black-haired woman, and the next instant she seized Dorothy by the shoulders and ran into the open door of the hut.