A very hearty and wholesome laugh, indeed, had been that of George Brayton—not at all the sort to bring upon him the enmity of the young men, but they were a part of the community which Mrs. Dr. Dryer had never very thoroughly understood, and it might be she was as much mistaken about them now as she had been in her younger days, if that sort of woman ever really has any.
The next morning dawned peacefully enough upon the sleepy-looking homes of Ogleport, but there was a general sense of insecurity pervading the entire community. Perhaps, if anybody had succeeded in expressing the common feeling, it would have been a “Wonder where Zeb Fuller won’t turn up next?”
Old Mr. Parker came down from the East hill in the middle of the forenoon, full of a wrathfully determined investigation of the raid on his orchard during the day before.
He listened with half incredulous amazement to the account the miller gave him of Zeb’s rescue of Dr. Dryer’s cows, and thus responded:
“Brother Todderley, if that’s true I begin to have my doubts. I don’t see how any apple tree in these parts could well be robbed if Zeb Fuller wasn’t there. It doesn’t seem to stand to reason, somehow.”
“Squire Parker,” replied the miller, “there’s worse boys in these parts than Deacon Fuller’s son. He saved my life the other day, and I believe he’s got the making of a great man in him.”
“There he is, now!” exclaimed Parker, pointing to a group of boys gathered at the mill-dam. “I’d like to know what mischief’s on foot this time.”
“You won’t learn by asking,” said the miller, but his friend exclaimed:
“Anyhow, I’m going to take a look at that crowd of boys.”
As they approached, Zeb arose from the log on which he had been sitting and greeted them ceremoniously.