Half an hour later, lying on a blanket in the stable, the dog breathed its last, while the three enraged and sorrowful lads stood looking on. Barker’s face was grim and bitter, his heart bursting with the wrath his lips could find no words to express.
Springer drew Piper aside. “Who do you sus-suppose would do a miserable, dirty thing like that, Sleuth?” he asked in a whisper.
“Not having had time to investigate the affair thoroughly, I’m not fully prepared to answer your question, Phil; but my deduction is that some one shot the poor hound with malice aforethought, or words to that effect.”
“It doesn’t require extreme perspicacity to arrive at that conclusion,” returned Springer sarcastically. “It was a low-down, murderous trick, and the contemptible sneak who did it ought to smart for it. The thing is to find out who it was.”
“Berlin isn’t popular. He has a number of enemies, and any one of these before-mentioned enemies might have——”
“Not any one of them; only a fellow of the very lowest and most vicious type would shoot a harmless dog in order to hurt the creature’s master. Of course I wouldn’t make any accusations—yet; but there are two fellows in town I’d suspect more than any one else.”
“In full and complete assurance of confidence, you may mention their names for my listening ear.”
“Oh, you can guess. I mean Lander and Davis.”
“H’m!” said Sleuth, leaning his chin on his clenched fist and puckering his brow into an expression of profound meditation and thought. “There’s yet another whose name has flashed comet-wise through my mind.”
“You mean——”