She winced as if he had struck her. She knew she had done wrong to suspect him, but I have noticed that wherever drink goes, it breeds suspicion and mistrust even in the good.
“Forgive me, Thomas,” she said softly, and there were tears in her eyes. “I know it wasn’t you, nor Joe.”
Then the tears began to roll down her cheeks, and she went swiftly back to the house. She did not like to see her pretty hens staggering against each other, and leaning up against the trees in the orchard, and she knew very well who was responsible for their condition.
She sent her husband and Mr. Granton out, and I thought they would kill themselves laughing at the plight of her hens. They were powerfully ridiculous, and to see Sir Walter trying to bunch them, and get them into their hen-houses to hide their shame, was as good as a play. He ran round and round them with his tongue out, and panted for all he was worth. The poor creatures tried to obey him, but they had little use of their legs, and finally he flopped down on the grass, and made up his mind just to wait till they got over it.
Only Betsy was sober, and she walked curiously all round her companions, lifting one claw high in the air, then the other, and saying softly, “Ka! Ka!” She was too dainty to eat oats, and had been holding herself in, to share in Sir Walter’s nice breakfast down at the house, as she usually did.
“That’s right, Walter,” said Mr. Bonstone mopping his eyes, “let them sleep it off. Good dog,” and he patted him.
I ran behind the two men as they went to the house. I wanted to hear what they said.
“There’s a serious side to this, Granton,” said Mr. Bonstone, “and my wife will be worried to death. Some one has brought forbidden fruit here. It’s between the men and that scamp Carty.”
My master was very careful about meddling with his friend’s private affairs; however he said softly, “No tramp could pass your dogs. I believe your men are beyond suspicion, but it’s always safe to give the suspected person the benefit of the doubt.”