The older girl did not answer, for at that moment the man who had pursued the boy ran into the yard. Breathing hard, he paused near the well.
“Did you see a boy come through here?” he asked abruptly. “The rascal stole one of my good layin’ hens.”
“We saw him,” Penny answered, “but I’m sure you’ll never overtake him now. He ran into the woods.”
“Reckon you’re right,” the man muttered, seating himself on the stone rim of the wishing well. “I’m tuckered.” Taking out a red-bandana handkerchief, he wiped perspiration from his forehead.
Penny thought that she recognized the man as a stonecutter who lived in a shack at the river’s edge. He was a short, muscular individual, strong despite his age, with hands roughened by hard labor. His face had been browned by wind and sun; gray eyes squinted as if ever viewing the world with suspicion and hate.
“Aren’t you Truman Crocker?” Penny inquired curiously.
“That’s my tag,” the stonecutter answered, drawing himself a drink of water from the well. “What are you young ’uns doing here?”
“Oh, our club came to sketch,” Penny returned. “You live close by, don’t you?”
“Down yonder,” the man replied, draining the dipper in a thirsty gulp. “I been haulin’ stone all day. It’s a hard way to make a living, let me tell you. Then I come home to find that young rascal making off with my chickens!”
“Do you know who he was?” asked Louise.