"What was he doing with Tom Wilkins?" said Slade, in a fretted
tone of voice. "He doesn't seem very choice in his company."
"They were gunning."
"Gunning!"
"Yes. They both had fowling-pieces. I wasn't near enough to ask
where they were going."
This information disturbed Slade a good deal. After muttering to
himself a little while, he started up and went into the house.
"And I could have told him a little more, had I been so inclined,"
said the individual who mentioned the fact that Frank was with Tom
Wilkins.
"What more?" inquired Matthew.
"There was a buggy in the case; and a champagne basket. What the
latter contained you can easily guess."
"Whose buggy?"
"I don't know anything about the buggy; but if 'Lightfoot' doesn't
sink in value a hundred dollars or so before sundown, call me a
false prophet."
"Oh, no," said Matthew, incredulously. "Frank wouldn't do an
outrageous thing like that. Lightfoot won't be in a condition to
drive for a month to come."
"I don't care. She's out now; and the way she was putting it down
when I saw her, would have made a locomotive look cloudy."
"Where did he get her?" was inquired.
"She's been in the six-acre field, over by Mason's Bridge, for the
last week or so," Matthew answered. "Well; all I have to say," he
added, "is that Frank ought to be slung up and well horse-whipped.
I never saw such a young rascal. He cares for no good, and fears
no evil.
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