“Yes, he did, Mike.”
“I t'ought so; I t'ought it was that blackguard. But how did the swine get in here? The stable was locked, an' I had the key in me pocket. I'll take me oath to that.”
Carter took his cap off, ran a hand reflectively up and down the crown of his head, canvassing every possible entry there might be to the stalls. Suddenly he replaced his cap and whistled softly. “I know, Mike; he crawled through the dung window. I've seen him do it half a dozen times. When he was too lazy to go for the keys, he'd wiggle through that hole.”
Mike said nothing, but led the way to the back of the stable. There he climbed upon the pile of rotting straw, and examined closely the small, square opening, with its board slide, through which Shandy had passed the night before.
“God! I t'ought so!” he ejaculated. “Here's more tobacco spit, where the cutt'roat divil stood when he opened the winder.”
Looking down, his eye caught the glint of something bright deep in the straw. He dug his hand down into the mass and brought up a knife. “Whose is that, Ned?” he queried.
Carter looked at it closely. “Shandy's,” he answered; “I'll swear to that. I've borrowed it from him more than once to clean out the horses' hoofs.”
“Bot' t'umbs up! I'd hang that b'y to a beam if I had him here. He cut that rein as sure as God made little apples,” declared Mike, vehemently. “An' the gall av him to go an' sit there in the ould stand to watch the Black run away wit' somewan an' kill 'em. Now jest kape yer mouth shut, Ned, an' we'll put a halter on this rooster. By hivins! when I git him I'll make him squale, too!”