“Anyway, I told them I did it—killed the deer. So then I got arrested and they took me to Chandler and the judge or justice of the peace or whatever they call him, he said I had to pay a hundred dollars, so I did. I’ve got enough left to get home with, all right. But anyway, I didn’t want you to hear about it because I wanted to tell you myself. I’ve got to stand the blame because I killed him and so that’s all there is to it.” It was fortunate for Westy that Aunt Mira was too dumfounded for words. As for Ira, his face was a study during the boy’s recital. He watched Westy shrewdly, now and then with a little glint of amusement in his eye as the young sportsman stumbled along with his boyish confession. Only once did he speak and that was when the boy had finished. “Who was the man you was talkin’ with in Barrett’s, kid?” “His name is Meadows,” Westy answered. “Hmph,” was Ira’s only comment. Indeed he had no opportunity for comment for Aunt Mira was presently upon him and her incisive commentary on Ira’s qualities probably saved Westy the discomfort of further questioning. He was such a thoroughly good boy that now when he confessed to doing wrong, Aunt Mira felt impelled to lay the blame to some one else. And Ira was the victim.... CHAPTER XVI AUNT MIRA AND IRA “Now you see, Iry Hasbrook, where your boastin’ and braggin’ and lyin’ yarns has led to,” said Aunt Mira, after Westy had gone. It had proved impossible to detain him, and he had marched off after his sensational disclosure with a feeling of infinite relief that no complications had occurred. But he might have seen danger of complications in Ira’s shrewd, amused look if he had only taken the trouble to notice it. “He’s a great kid,” said Ira. “A pretty mess you’ve got him in,” said Aunt Mira, “with your _droppin’_ this and _droppin’_ that. Now he’s _dropped_ his deer and I hope you’re satisfied. ’Twouldn’t be no wonder if he ran away to sea and you to blame, Ira Hasbrook. It’s because he’s so good and trustin’ and makes heroes out of every one, even fools like you with your kidnappin’ kings and rum smugglin’ and what all.” “How ’bout the book in the settin’ room?” Ira asked. Aunt Mira made no answer to this but she at least paid Ira the compliment of rising from her chair with such vigor of determination that the dishpan full of beans which had been reposing in her lap was precipitated upon the floor. She strode into the sitting room where the “sumptuous, gorgeously illustrated volume” lay upon the innocent worsted tidy which decorously covered the marble of the center table.