“Let’s look into this a little closer, Mr.—Mr.——” said Hugh.
“Stebbins is my name, Uriah Stebbins, and I owns three farms araound this section,” the other hastened to remark when Hugh paused.
“And my name is Hugh Hardin, Mr. Stebbins,” continued the scout master, still looking pleasant, without appearing to smile too broadly; for he realized that the angular old farmer might be sensitive and easily believe he was being made an object of ridicule.
“All right, and I want tew say right naow that I doan’t b’lieve yeou done the trick, but haow ’baout some o’ the rest o’ the boys?”
“I’d be very much surprised, Mr. Stebbins,” Hugh assured him, “if it turned out that any of these scouts were guilty. They’re taught differently in the organization to which we all belong. Scouts like fun as much as any boys, but they try to have it without being mean, or injuring others. Now, can you tell me when the bars of your pasture were let down?”
“Sence high noon,” came the reply. “I know ’cause I was aout there ’raound that time, an’ everything was as it ought tew be. When I kim by jest naow I seen every bar tuk daown an’ the cattle air missin’.”
Hugh turned to the scouts, now clustered around the spot.
“Who has been off since lunch time?” he asked quietly.
“I was for one!” came from Arthur Cameron without hesitation; and Hugh fancied he saw something in the face of the speaker that made him think Arthur could tell a story if questioned; though the expression did not savor of guilt.
“No one else?” continued the scout master, firmly.