CHAPTER IX
ON THE TRAIL
Barrett’s was not accustomed to visits from nattily attired boy scouts with rifles slung over their shoulders and the lolling youths of the settlement stared at him and commented audibly as he passed.
“Hey, what’s that you got over your shoulder?” one of them called.
“That, oh, that’s a soup spoon,” said Westy, quite unperturbed. “Do you know where Luke Meadows lives?”
“What d’yer want ’im fer?” one of the natives asked.
“Oh, I just wanted to see him,” said Westy.
“Whatcher want ter see ’im fer?”
“Oh, just for fun. Do you know where he lives?”
“He lives in that white house up the road,” said a rather more accommodating boy. “Do you see the house with the winder broken? The one with the chimney gone? He lives there, only he ain’t home.”
“He is too,” contradicted another informer. “I seen him go in his back door half an hour ago; he come around through the fields from the woods.”