“At least,” defended Dutch with a chuckle, “he knows when to shut up!”
“I guess,” said Ned to Sandy when they left the table, “that I’m just as curious as Marm is about where that pillow-case has got to.”
“Pshaw,” replied Sandy, “never mind about that. What bothers me is that money of yours. That’s a very funny thing, Ned. Nothing like it has ever happened in West House since I’ve been here. You don’t suppose—” he hesitated—“you don’t think that Cal knows anything about it, do you?”
“Cal? Of course not,” replied Ned emphatically. “I’d trust him anywhere.”
“Well, he doesn’t seem that sort to me, either,” said Sandy. “I like the chap. Only he did know the money was there, and then Spud is certain that he saw someone in front of your bureau; someone who wore a nightgown. And excepting Cal and Clara the rest of us all wear pajamas.”
“Oh, rot,” said Ned. “Spud was half asleep, probably. Anyway, it’s a fair guess he couldn’t tell whether the person wore a nightgown or a—a potato sack. I’ll bet he imagined the whole thing; dreamed it, probably. I wouldn’t be surprised if I came across the money somewhere, after all,” he added carelessly.
“Well, I hope you do. I’d hate to think that there was any fellow here who would steal.”
“I don’t believe it was stolen, Sandy.”
“But you said last night—”