Ira’s attitude with respect to Westy’s sensational confession was not the moral attitude.
“I’ll be gol darned, I don’t believe he did it,” he mused. His thought seemed to be that it was too good to be true.
He slowly drew himself to his feet, pulled his outlandish felt hat from its peg, refilled his pipe, and sauntered over into the woods where he soon hit the trail which formed the short cut to Chandler. He had not walked fifteen minutes when he heard voices and presently came upon a little group of people gazing at the carcass of the deer. Terry, the game warden, and Farmer Sands were very much in evidence.
“What cher goin’ to do with him; drag him out?” Ira inquired without wasting any words in greeting.
“H’lo, Iry,” said the game warden. “Work of the boy scouts; pretty good job, huh?”
“Yere, so he was tellin’ me,” drawled Ira. “Plunked him right in the bean, huh?”
“Who was tellin’ yer?” inquired Farmer Sands with aggressive shrewdness.
“The kid,” drawled Ira.
“Yer don’t mean he come back and told yer?” Farmer Sands inquired incredulously.
“Uh huh, work of the boy scouts,” said Ira. “I was thinkin’ he might ’a been lyin’ only I don’t believe he knows how ter lie any more’n he knows how to shoot. Got a match, Terry?”