"No, sir--that is, sir, I ain't sure. Mr. Jasper he asked me who I thought the boys was, and I told him I didn't get close enough to see, but I fancied one was Bobby Carter, because they run this way, and I thought I recognized Master Bobby's legs as he crawled under the hedge. I told Mr. Jasper it was only guess, but he was mad because she was one of his prize hens, and he said he'd just drop a line to you and let you investigate. It was dangerous, he said, if Master Bobby was playin' with firearms, and you'd ought to know it." "Yes, certainly; I understand." Mr. Carter raised his voice and called to the boy who was visible sprawling on a bench by the tennis-court. "Bobby! Come here." He pulled himself together with obedient haste and advanced to meet his father, somewhat apprehensively, as his eye fell upon Patrick. "Bobby, here is a note from Mr. Jasper. He says that some boys were shooting at a target on his beach this morning and killed one of his prize guinea fowls. He is not sure, but he thinks that you may have been one of them. How about it?" Bobby looked uncomprehending for a moment while he covertly studied Patrick. The man's air was apologetic; his accusation was evidently based upon suspicion rather than proof. "I went crabbing with Bert Holliday this morning," said Bobby. "Ah!" his father's face cleared, though he still maintained his stern tone. "I gave you strict orders, you remember, never to touch my revolver when I was not with you?" "Yes, father." "You never have touched it?" "No." Bobby's tone was barely audible. "Speak up! I can't hear you." "No!" snapped Bobby. "Don't act that way. I am not accusing you of anything. I merely wish to know the truth." Mr. Carter turned to Patrick, who was nervously fumbling with his hat. "You see, Patrick, you were mistaken. Tell Mr. Jasper that I am sorry about the guinea fowl, but that Master Bobby had nothing to do with the shooting." He dismissed the man with a nod, and mounted and rode away. Peter watched him out of sight, then he turned and crossed the lawn to the tennis-court. Bobby was back on his bench again engaged in carving his name on the handle of a racket, though his face, Peter noted, did not reflect much pleasure in the work. He glanced up carelessly as Peter approached, but as he caught the look in his eye, he flushed quickly, and with elaborate attention applied himself to shaping a "C."