Sandboys glanced anxiously around, and then he shook his head.
"Some other time," he said in a whisper. "When he ain't in ear-shot. He don't know nothin' about it, and if he did he'd be awful mad."
"He" to whom Sandboys so mysteriously alluded was Mr. Bingle, the owner of the Mountain House stables.
"If he ever suspected," continued Sandboys, "he could ruin me. It was his tackle I used!"
And with that he was off out of ear-shot, and away from the sharp eyesight of Mr. Bingle, whose glance seemed to penetrate to the core of his conscience, as it is apt always to be when consciences with something weighing upon them are involved.
Later on when he was off duty, and Mr. Bingle was far away, Sandboys made confession to Bob and Jack, and it ran somewhat in this wise:
"The reason I didn't want old Bingle to hear," he explained, "was exactly as I told you. It was his tackle I used with my big haul, and he'd be fightin' mad if he knew who it was as done it. He knew it had been done, of course, but he never knew it was me."
"But I don't see," said Bob. "Using somebody else's tackle isn't any crime. Everybody does it, don't they?"
"It all depends on the tackle," said Sandboys. "Some tackle's more expensive than others, and more easily damaged. Old Bingle holds his at about eighteen dollars a day—and I must say when he got it back it was pretty wet and muddy—'specially old Spavinshanks."
Bob looked at Jack and Jack looked at Bob. Sandboys when he spoke plainly was hard enough to find otherwise than queer, but when he chose to veil his words in mystery, he was even harder to see through than a stone wall. The idea of any man's holding his fishing-tackle at a valuation of eighteen dollars a day was preposterous enough; that he should object to its being brought back wet and muddy was surprising; but the phrase "'specially old Spavinshanks" was absolutely past comprehension.