“Guess it’s from that youngster yer had daown t’h’ farm,” commented Mr. Speyer; “Bridgeberry, hain’t it? That youngster oughter be walloped, and by gol, I’d be th’ one ter do it, I tell yer; shootin’ up th’ woods outer season.”
“Well, I d’no,” drawled Ira, ruefully. “I’d kinder think twice ’fore I’d wallop that kid. He jes soon shoot yer down as look at yer; shot a school teacher fer givin’ him a bad mark last winter, I heerd.”
“I want ter know!” ejaculated Mr. Speyer.
“Yer got ter handle that kid with gloves,” said Ira. “He expects to be a train robber when he grows up. Let’s have a paper of tobaccy, Jeb.”
“What yer reckon’s become of Luke Meadows, Iry?” Jeb asked.
“Him? Oh, I s’pect the kid killed him and hid him away somewheres. The whole truth o’ that business ain’t out yet, Jeb.”
“Think so, huh?” said Jeb shrewdly.
“There’s queer things ’bout it,” said Ira darkly.
On the way home he paused at the house of Terry, the game warden. He had no object in doing this but Terry’s little house was on the way and the game warden was nailing the deerskin to the barn door, so Ira stopped to chat. Terry was the terror of game law violators the county over, but he was a thrifty soul, and benefited so much by illegal killings as to sell deer and fox skins to the market. Thus poor Luke Meadows put money in the pocket of Terry, the game warden. Ira’s broad code of morals was not opposed to this sort of thing and he stood by, chatting idly with Terry about the value of the skin.
“I got the bullets, I got the bullets,” said Terry’s scrawny little daughter, exhibiting them proudly in the palm of her outstretched hand. “See? I got the bullets.”