"Aw, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Smith," said the soothing voice of Nick O'Connor.
"You mightn't, but I would. An' so'd you, if you had your property lifted as soon as you turned your back!"
"Go on, now!" said Nick sympathetically. "You don't mean——"
"I mean there's a pack o' thieves here. Me good umbrella that I left in the trap——"
"It ain't gone, surely?"
"Yes it is. My word, if I could lay me hands on whoever took it! I've had that umbrella these fifteen years."
"Mighty good luck it didn't split with 'Possum," said Tom to himself. He grinned, flattening his body against the wall of the shed.
"You don't say!" Nick was murmuring. "I wouldn't have thought any one 'ud go stealin' an umbrella. But with all these blacks about, you never can tell."
"Me father used to shoot blacks for stealin'," boomed Mr. Smith. "I dunno why they'd object if you did that now. A pack of idle, useless, thievin'——"
"Well, you don't know for certain it was them," said Nick. "Look here, now—are you sure you didn't leave it at home?"