"Well, son, I ain't asked!" rejoined the little lamplighter in a rather startled tone.
"Well, don't you think they'd ought to, seeing that you was one of the witnesses, and found old Mr. McBride before anybody else did?" persisted the boy.
"I won't say but what you might think they'd want me present; but Conklin ain't even suggested it, and if he don't think of it I can't say as I'll have any hard feelings," concluded Mr. Shrimplin magnanimously.
They were about to enter Mount Hope now; to their right they could distinguish the brick slaughter-house which stood on the river bank, and which served conveniently to mark the town's corporate limits on the east. The little lamplighter spoke persuasively to Bill, and the lateness of the hour together with the nearness to his own stable, conspired to make that sagacious beast shuffle forward over the stony road at a very respectable rate of speed. They were fairly abreast of the slaughter-house when Custer suddenly placed his hand on his father's arm.
"Hark!" said the boy.
Mr. Shrimplin drew rein.
"Well, what is it, Custer?" he asked, with all that bland indulgence of manner which was habitual to him in his intercourse with his son.
"Didn't you hear, it sounded like a cry!" said Custer, in an excited whisper.
And instantly a shiver traversed the region of Mr. Shrimplin's spine.
"I guess you was mistaken, son!" he answered rather nervously.