can afford it. He's a stingy old lunks, anyway."
"That's true enough."
"And it won't ruin him if he does lose the cow. He's able to buy another."
It struck Tom, though he was not over conscientious, that this was not exactly the way to regard the matter, but he did not like to offend James, and he had ventured to oppose him more than usual already. So he remained silent.
James was not quite satisfied with his friend. He was not altogether sure of his fidelity.
"I've got only one thing to say, Tom," he added. "If you go back on me, and breathe a word of what happened in the pasture, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live."
"Who's going back on you? did I say I was?" demanded Tom rather irritably.
"All right, then; I only wanted to have the thing understood between us, I didn't really think you would be mean enough to tell."
So a satisfactory understanding was established between the two boys, and it looked as if Mark was likely to be the victim of their alliance.
But just when James was beginning to feel secure, he was startled by an apparition just looming in sight on the highway. It was not a formidable figure—that of Deacon Miller—but under the circumstances James turned pale and his heart began to beat.
"Tom," he gasped; "isn't that Deacon Miller coming up the road?"
"It's the deacon sure enough!" answered Tom, looking disconcerted.
"Do you think he's coming here?" queried James nervously.
"Looks like it?" muttered Tom.
"Do you think he can have–heard anything?"
"Perhaps he heard that we were out with guns?" suggested Tom. "He may have come to make inquiries."
"Just so, now, Tom, be careful not to look as if there was anything the matter. We'll be extra polite to the old fellow."
"All right!"
"He may not be coming here after all."
But he was! arrived at the gate Deacon Miller paused, and opening it entered the front yard. He looked sharply at the two boys who were standing on the lawn.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DEACON'S MISSION
Ordinarily James would not have considered Deacon Miller worth any polite attention, but the knowledge of what had happened in the pasture had its effect upon him. He thought it necessary by a little attention to disarm the deacon's suspicions if he had any.
"Good evening, Deacon Miller," he said politely. "Did you wish to see father?"
"Wal," said the deacon deliberately. "I have a little business with him. Is he at home?"
"I am pretty sure he is," answered James. "Come in with me, and I'll see."
The deacon smiled—an inscrutable smile—and followed James, who opened the front door and led him into the parlor.
"You're very obligin'," he said. "I had no idea you was so polite."
"It is the duty of a gentleman to be polite!" said James loftily.
"So 'tis, so 'tis!" returned the old man chuckling in an unaccountable manner. "I'm glad you think so. It's a great thing to be a boy, I had lots of fun when I was a boy. So do you, hey?"
"Oh yes," answered James indifferently. "But not as much as I could have in the city."
"But you couldn't go huntin' and fishin' in the city," said the deacon slyly.
James' heart gave a bound. What did the disagreeable old man mean? was it possible that he suspected?
"I don't care much for either," he said. "But I'll go and call father."
Presently the squire appeared and invited Deacon Miller into the back room, which was used as the family dining and sitting-room.
"Glad to see, you, deacon," said Mr. Collins, who, having political aspirations, thought it worth while to be polite to his neighbors.
"I ain't so sure of that, squire, when you know what I come about," returned the deacon with a crafty smile.
"No bad news, I hope, deacon."
"Wal, it ain't good news. You know my cow, old Whitey?"
"Well?" interrogated the squire, looking puzzled. He had heard nothing as yet of the accident in the pasture.
"She was shot in the face this afternoon—her eyes totally destroyed. I shall have to kill her."
"That's a pity! I sympathize with you, deacon. It must be a great disappointment to you. She was a good milker, wasn't she?"
"Fust-rate! I never had a cow that could beat her. She was worth fifty dollars easy."
"Very likely," said the squire, innocently, quite unaware of the trap which the wily deacon was preparing for him. It will be observed that the deacon, finding he had a case against a rich man, had concluded to raise the value of the cow by five dollars. "Fifty dollars is a considerable loss."
"So 'tis, but I haven't got to lose it. The one that shot old Whitey is responsible."
"Who did shoot her?" asked Squire Collins.
"Your boy, James," answered the deacon, slowly.
Squire Collins was very disagreeably surprised. He was not a man who liked to part with money, and he saw how he had been trapped.
"Did you see James shoot the cow?" he demanded sharply.
"N—o; I can't say I did," replied the deacon, cautiously.
"I don't believe he did it then. Did he admit it to you?"
"N—o. I didn't ask him about it."
"Then, Deacon Miller, permit me to say that you have no case against him, and I am not responsible for your unfortunate loss.
"Somebody else saw it!" remarked the deacon triumphantly.
"Who was it?"
"John Downie."
"John Downie! Pooh, he is a mere boy," said the squire, contemptuously.
"He's got as many eyes as you or I, squire," said the deacon, shrewdly.
This was unquestionably true, and the squire felt that he had made a foolish objection.
"John Downie may not tell the truth," he said, angrily.
"I'm willin' it should come before the court," said the deacon. "Wouldn't it be jest as well to ask your boy about it; he's out in the yard."
James was still in the yard. He had half a mind to go away, but was anxious about the deacon's errand. When he heard his father's voice calling him he turned pale.
"Wait for me, Tom," he said.
