The others, left in the living–room, waited in silence. They could hear the stealthy footsteps, which, however, seemed now to be moving away.
"I wonder who or what it can be?" murmured the professor. "This is the second time some one has been sneaking around here. I don't like it."
"It does look suspicious," admitted Jack. "Do you suppose the man you spoke of, Mr. Roumann, who you thought might try to discover your secret, has traced you here, and is endeavoring to steal it?"
"No, I hardly think so. I took good care to conceal my movements, and not even my closest friends know that I am here with Professor Henderson, making a projectile, the trip of which will astonish the world. No, I think this must be some other person."
"It's a pusson after mah chickens!" insisted Washington. "If yo'll allow me, perfesser, t' project mahself inter de promixity of his inner consciousness—"
"No, you just stay here," decided Mr. Henderson. "You might get into trouble if you went out and tried conclusions with a thicken thief, which I suppose is what you are trying to say you want to do."
"Dat's what I did say, perfesser."
They could no longer hear the footsteps, but the silence of the night was suddenly broken by the report of Andy's gun.
"There! He's shot at him!" cried Jack.
"I hope he disabled dat chicken stealer!" yelled the colored man. "Anybody what'll steal chickens—"