“Come upstairs with me and we will make a thorough search.”
“Wait a minute, please, sir,” said Dallas. “May I ask Higby what the sound was that drew him from his bed?”
“T-t-the sound of owls, sir,” stammered Higby, “of little ow-ow-owls sittin’ on the trees an’ hootin.’”
Dallas gave Titus a queer look, and the latter immediately burst out laughing.
“’Pon my word; poor old Higby,” gasped Titus. “You’ve been fooled.”
The manservant looked at him indignantly, while Dallas turned to the Judge, who was waiting for an explanation.
“You told me not to keep my birds so closely, sir, so I let them do pretty much as they please. I open my window every night at dusk. They must have got in through some other window into the hall. It is a habit of owls to pounce on anything furry or hairy.”
“I know that,” said the Judge, with a hearty laugh. “I’ve heard of their descending on the fur caps of hunters. Well! well! poor old Higby,” and he turned to him. “Come, now, get over your fright. Those were only little birds that attacked you—Master Dallas’s little owls.”
Higby was in a speechless rage. He did not dare to get angry with the Judge, but he did not for a moment believe that his assailant had been a bird.
“Come, come,” said the Judge, humoring him; “to satisfy you we will make a search.”