The nearest that Ira’s cogitations brought him to the truth was his suspicion that somehow or other Westy and Luke Meadows had both been involved in the lawless act of killing and that Westy (being the financier of the pair) had been frightened into taking the blame. In this case it seemed likely enough that Luke (aware of his dubious reputation) would depart before Westy should have time to weaken and incriminate him. This was about the best that he could do with the rather puzzling circumstances, and several pipefuls of Howling Bulldog Plug Cut were required to establish this theory. He had no intention of reopening the unhappy subject with Aunt Mira. It pleased him to have her believe that Westy was a daring and law-defying huntsman. And the whole matter would probably have died out of his own mind in the preoccupation of his farm duties, save for two incidents which restored his curiosity and revived his interest. Both of these happened the next day, Saturday. On that afternoon, Ira took the milk cans to the little station at Dawson’s and stopped in the post office on the way back. The postmaster, Jeb Speyer, handed him a letter or two and a rolled up newspaper addressed to Aunt Mira. On the wrapper of this newspaper were written the words _marked copy_ and Ira contemplated the address and the postmark with that ludicrous air of one who seldom reads. “Guess it’s from that youngster yer had daown t’h’ farm,” commented Mr. Speyer; “Bridgeberry, hain’t it? That youngster oughter be walloped, and by gol, I’d be th’ one ter do it, I tell yer; shootin’ up th’ woods outer season.” “Well, I d’no,” drawled Ira, ruefully. “I’d kinder think twice ’fore I’d wallop that kid. He jes soon shoot yer down as look at yer; shot a school teacher fer givin’ him a bad mark last winter, I heerd.” “_I want ter know!_” ejaculated Mr. Speyer. “Yer got ter handle that kid with gloves,” said Ira. “He expects to be a train robber when he grows up. Let’s have a paper of tobaccy, Jeb.” “What yer reckon’s become of Luke Meadows, Iry?” Jeb asked. “Him? Oh, I s’pect the kid killed him and hid him away somewheres. The whole truth o’ that business ain’t out yet, Jeb.” “Think so, huh?” said Jeb shrewdly. “There’s queer things ’bout it,” said Ira darkly. On the way home he paused at the house of Terry, the game warden. He had no object in doing this but Terry’s little house was on the way and the game warden was nailing the deerskin to the barn door, so Ira stopped to chat. Terry was the terror of game law violators the county over, but he was a thrifty soul, and benefited so much by illegal killings as to sell deer and fox skins to the market. Thus poor Luke Meadows put money in the pocket of Terry, the game warden. Ira’s broad code of morals was not opposed to this sort of thing and he stood by, chatting idly with Terry about the value of the skin.