CHAPTER XXVII ENTER THE CONTEMPTIBLE SCOUNDREL At eight o’clock that evening, an evening destined to be memorable in the annals of local scouting, Ira Hasbrook stood upon the porch of the Martin home and, having pushed the electric button, knocked out the contents of his pipe against the rail preparatory to entering. He wore khaki trousers which in some prehistoric era had been brown, a blue flannel shirt and an old strap from a horse harness by way of a belt. He was not in the least perturbed, but bore himself with an easy-going demeanor which had a certain quality that suggested that nothing less than an earthquake could ruffle it. He was not admitted to the house by the correct man servant and seemed quite content to wait on the porch until Mr. Martin (whom he purposed to honor with a call) should make known his pleasure touching the scene of their interview. “You want to see me; what is it?” that gentleman demanded curtly. “You Mr. Martin, huh? Westy’s father?” “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” “Well,” drawled Ira, “you can do a turn fer him, mebbe; and that’ll be doin’ somethin’ fer me. I’m down off the farm up yonder—up by Dawson’s.” “Oh, you mean you work for Mr. Nelson?” “By turns, when I’m in the country. The kid happen to be home?” “No, sir, he’s not,” said Mr. Martin curtly, “but I think I’ve heard of you. What is your business here?” “Well, I never was in no business exactly, as the feller says,” Ira drawled out. “Kid’s gone ter the meetin’, huh?” “I believe he has,” said Mr. Martin briskly. “Did Mr. Nelson send you here? If there is anything you have to say to my son I think it would be better for you to say it to me.” “That’s as might be,” said Ira easily. “Would yer want that I should talk to yer here?” Mr. Martin stepped aside to let the caller pass within. Ira wiped his feet but paid no other tribute, nor, indeed, paid the slightest heed to the rather sumptuous surroundings in which he found himself. He followed the lord of the establishment into the library and seated himself in one of the big leather chairs. Mr. Martin did not trouble himself to present Ira when his wife and daughter (fearful of some newly disclosed sequel to Westy’s escapade) stole into the room and unobtrusively seated themselves in a corner. “Well, sir, what is it?” said Mr. Martin authoritatively. “Well,” drawled Ira, “it’s ’bout yer son shootin’ a deer.” “We know about that,” said Mr. Martin coldly. “Yer don’t happen ter know if he used the rifle since, do you?” At this there was an audible titter from Doris. “Oh, yes, I know very well that he hasn’t,” said the official jailer, “I have it under lock and key.” “I’d like ter git a squint at that there gun.” “That would be impossible,” said Mr. Martin. “Yes?” “Is there any claim that the gun doesn’t belong to my son? That he——”