asked Mrs. Manning.
"As sure as I need to be. I caught him standin' by the cow with his gun in his hand. The barrel was empty, for I tried it to see."
"What have you to say to this charge, Mark?"
"That Deacon Miller is mistaken. I did not shoot his cow."
"I reckon you'll have to pay for it all the same. Mark Manning. I don't want to be hard on a poor widder, but it stands to reason that I should be paid for my cow."
"I agree to that," said Mark, "but I'm not the one."
"Mebbe the cow shot herself!" said the deacon, sarcastically. "It may be nat'ral for cows to commit suicide, but I never saw one do it as far as I can remember. Young man, your story is too thin."
CHAPTER VIII.
DEACON MILLER GETS A CLUE
Mark was forced to smile at the idea of old Whitey committing suicide. The deacon observed his smile, and it provoked him.
"Do you mean to say, Mark Manning, that you think the critter shot herself in the face?" he demanded, sharply.
"No, Deacon Miller, I have no such idea."
"That's the same as admittin' that you shot her," said the deacon, triumphantly.
"No, it isn't, deacon. I didn't shoot her, but I have no doubt some one else did."
"It may have been the cat," remarked the deacon, with a return to sarcasm.
"It was probably a two-legged cat," said Mark.
"Jest my idee!" remarked the deacon, quickly, "An' that brings it home to you. You was out with a gun, an' I caught you standin' beside the cow."
"As to catching me," returned Mark, "there was no catching about it. I was crossing the pasture, and was attracted by the poor animal's moans. That is the way I happened to be near when you came up."
"That all sounds very smooth," said the deacon, impatiently, "but if you didn't shoot the cow, who did?"
"I think that question can be answered, Deacon Miller; John Downie!"
To the deacon's surprise, John came into the room at this summons.
"Johnny," said Mark, "will you tell the deacon who shot his cow!"
"I don't like to tell," objected John; "it wasn't done on purpose."
"Did you do it?" queried the deacon, sharply.
"No, sir. I never fired a gun in my life."
"Who did it, then?"
"Must I tell, Mark?"
"Yes, Johnny; Deacon Miller has a right to know; even if it was not done on purpose, the one who did it ought to make good the loss."
"That's where you speak sense, Mark," said the deacon, approvingly.
"Then it was Jim Collins."
"James Collins—the squire's son!" repeated the deacon, astonished.
"Yes."
John proceeded to tell the story once more. The deacon, it is needless to say, listened very attentively.
"So the boys run away, did they?" he inquired, grimly.
"Yes, sir."
"And I s'pose you'd have run away, too, if you had done it, hey?"
"Perhaps I might," answered John, ingenuously. "I s'pose they were scared."
"I'll scare 'em," growled the deacon. "Squire Collins is able to make up the loss to me, and I mean he shall." Then, with a momentary suspicion, "This ain't a story you an' Mark have got up between you, to get him off, is it?"
"I will answer that, Deacon Miller," said Mark firmly. "If I had shot your cow, I wouldn't have run away, but I'd have gone right to you and told you about it, and I'd have paid you just as soon as I could."
"That's right, that's right," said the deacon, approvingly, beginning to regard Mark with more favor. "Well, I must go and see the squire. Here, you John Downie, come along with me."
"I've got to go home," said John.
"But I can't prove it without you."
"You can tell the squire that I saw it done, and am ready to swear to it, if he wants me to."
"Mebbe that'll do if I send for you, you'll come, hey?"
"Yes, sir."
The deacon did not feel disposed to postpone what he regarded as important business, and he left the cottage, taking the shortest direction to the squire's more imposing dwelling. We will precede him.
James Collins and his friend, as already described, ran away as fast as their legs could carry them, when they ascertained what damage had been done.
No one, so far as they knew, had seen them, and they hoped to escape, scot free.
Tom accompanied James home, and stayed to supper. After supper the boys went out, and had a conference together.
James felt a little nervous, though he believed that he was safe from incurring suspicion.
"I wonder if the deacon has found old Whitey yet?" said James.
"I guess so," answered Tom. "He usually goes after the cows before this."
"I wonder how he'll think it happened?"
"Maybe he'll lay it to Mark."
James was not very much disturbed at this supposition.
"That would be a good joke!" he said.
"Not for Mark."
"Mark can take care of himself. He was out with a gun as well as we."
"His mother couldn't afford to pay for the cow," said Tom, who was rather more considerate than his companion.
"That's none of my business. And, Tom, there's something I want to say to you."
"Go ahead!"
"If Mark is accused, don't you go to saying it's a mistake. Remember it's none of your business."
Tom looked uncomfortable, having some conscience.
"It would be rough on a poor woman like Mrs. Manning having to pay for the deacon's cow."
"You're mighty considerate, Tom. You might consider me a little. If it were known that I shot the cow, father would make me pay at least half the bill out of my money in the savings' bank. I thought you were my friend!"
"So I am."
"Then you won't betray me. As for Mark, the deacon can't prove it against him, so he won't have to pay."
"Then the deacon will lose his cow, and get no pay."
"He
