“There’s some knack even in driving a nail, isn’t there?” said Whistler.
“Ah, there comes Mr. Walker,” said Clinton, as a man appeared in the yard, and he went out to speak to him.
“Where’s your father, Clinton?” inquired the man.
“I don’t know,—he is somewhere about here,” replied Clinton. “Shall I go and find him?”
“No matter about it,—I’m in a hurry,” replied Mr. Walker. “I was going by, and I thought I’d stop and let your folks know that father has heard from his horse, and got track of the rascal that set fire to the barn.”
“Has he?—who is it?” inquired Clinton.
“We’ve traced the fellow to Bangor, and there we’ve lost him,” continued Mr. Walker; “but I’m in hopes we shall get some clew to him again. He sold the horse about twenty miles this side of Bangor.”
“But who is the fellow?” inquired Clinton, with a feeling of suspense somewhat similar to what he experienced when his father had the rejected dialogue under consideration.
“We don’t know for a certainty,—he went by two or three different names, and probably all of them were assumed for the occasion,” replied Mr. Walker; “but, from the description of him, we think it must be a fellow that father complained of for selling rum, over at the Cross Roads. His name was Dick Sneider.”
“There! that explains it all, then!” said Clinton, and the color suddenly went from his face.