“I’m telling the truth,” he cried, huskily. “Those are our sleds. I can describe every article on them.”
The ruffian made another rush at the lad, but was jerked back. The loggers seemed to be against Sparwick to a man. Evidently they knew his reputation.
“Sit down thar,” commanded Thomson, pointing to a chair. “An’ don’t yer make no sneak fur the door. We’ll get to the bottom of this affair. Now, youngsters, spin your yarn.”
The boys needed no second bidding. They spoke by turns, and gave a clear and convincing account of their unpleasant adventure. They did not forget to describe the thrilling slaughter of the deer. This part of the narrative caused the loggers to open their eyes and stare incredulously. They slapped their horny hands against their knees.
“That chap tells a heap what ain’t true,” said Sparwick, when Jerry had finished the concluding part of the tale. “I found the sleds, an’ reckoned their owners had lost ’em. As fur me shootin’ at the lads—why, that’s the biggest lie of all. I never laid eyes on ’em until now.”
But no one seemed to believe the rascal. Indeed, they heaped him with ugly names, and made not a few unpleasant threats. Thomson interfered in behalf of peace.
“Everybody knows that Kyle Sparwick can’t keep his hands off other people’s property,” he said. “He’s seen the inside of more’n one jail. Thar’s where he oughter go this time, only I reckon no one’s goin’ ter take him down ter Bangor. Now, I’ve got a propersition ter make -pervided it suits these youngsters. If Kyle Sparwick will agree ter do a week’s work here we won’t prosecute him.”
This suggestion was approved.
“What’s yer answer, prisoner?” demanded Thomson.
“I reckon it’s yes,” muttered Sparwick.