Peter scooped¹ a quart of oats into a box, took out the bottle of liniment the veterinary surgeon had left, and started, grumbling², for the lower meadow. Trixy had hurt her foot, and it was Billy's fault. A groom³ who knew no better than to tie a horse to a barbed-wire fence on a day when the flies were bad, ought, in Peter's estimation, to be discharged.  
He had some trouble in catching⁴ Trixy and applying the liniment, but he finally accomplished⁵ the matter, and dropped down to rest in the shade of the straggling hedge that divided the grounds of Willowbrook from Jasper Place. He lighted his pipe and fell to a lazy contemplation of the pasture—his thoughts neither of Trixy nor the cows nor anything else pertaining⁶ to his duties, but now as always playing with a glorified⁷ vision of Annie, the prettiest little parlour-maid in the whole wide world. He was completely lost to his surroundings, when the sound of pistol shots on the other side of the hedge recalled him to the present with a jerk.
 
"What are them young devils up to now?" he muttered, as he raised himself to look through the branches.
 
A group of boys was visible down on the Jasper beach, firing, somewhat wildly, toward a target they had set up on the bank. Peter squinted⁸ his eyes and peered closely; one of the boys was Bobby Carter, and Peter more than suspected that the revolver was his father's. The boy had been strictly⁹ forbidden to play with firearms, and Peter's first impulse was to interfere¹⁰; but on second thoughts he hesitated. Bobby was very recently thirteen, and was feeling the importance of no longer being[Pg 211] a little boy. He would not relish¹¹ being told to come home and mind his father.
 
While Peter stood hesitating, a sudden frightened squawk rang out, and he saw one of Mr. Jasper's guinea fowls¹³ fly a few feet into the air and plump heavily to the ground. At the same instant Patrick appeared at the top of the meadow, bearing down upon the scene of the crime, shouting menacingly as he advanced. The boys broke and ran. They came crashing through the hedge a few feet from Peter and made for cover in a clump¹⁴ of willows¹⁵. Peter recognized them all—Bobby and Bert Holliday and the two Hartridge boys, the latter the horror of all well-regulated parents. He saw them part, the two Hartridge boys heading for the road, while Bobby and Bert Holliday turned toward the house, keeping warily¹⁶ under the bank, Bobby buttoning the revolver inside his jacket as he ran. Peter crouched¹⁷ under the branches and laid low; he had no desire to be called into the case as witness.
 
Patrick panted up to the hedge and surveyed the empty stretch of meadow with a disappointed grunt¹⁸. He caught a glimpse of the Hartridge boys as they climbed the fence into the high-road, but they were too far off for recognition. He mopped his brow and lumbered¹⁹ back to examine the body of the guinea fowl¹². Poor Patrick was neither so slender nor so young as when he entered Mr. Jasper's service twenty years before; as he daily watched Peter's troubles across the hedge, he thanked the saints that the Jasper family contained no boys.
 
Peter waited till Patrick was well out of sight, when he rose and turned back toward the stables. He met Bobby and Bert Holliday in the lane, armed with a net, a basket, and a generous hunk of raw meat.
 
"Hello, Pete!" Bobby hailed him cheerily. "We're going crabbing²⁰, Bert and me. If you hear Nora asking after some soup meat that strayed out of the refrigerator, don't let on you met it."
 
"Trust me!" said Peter with an answering grin; but he turned and looked after the boys a trifle soberly.
 
Bobby's escapade with the revolver was on a different plane from such mild misdemeanours as abstracting fishing bait from the kitchen. Peter felt keenly that Mr. Carter ought to know, but he shrank from the idea of telling. For one thing, he hated tale-bearing; for another, he had a presentiment²¹ as to the direction Bobby's punishment would take.
 
As an indirect result of his thirteenth birthday, the boy was to have a new horse—not another pony²², but a grown-up horse—provided always that he was good. Mr. Carter, being occupied with business out of town, had not been able to give the matter his immediate²³ attention; and poor Bobby had been dwelling²⁴ on the cold heights of virtue²⁵ for nearly a month. He had undergone, a week or so before, a mild attack of three-day measles²⁶ which he had borne with a sweet gentleness quite foreign to[Pg 214] his nature. Peter had openly scouted²⁷ the doctor's diagnosis²⁸ of the case.
 
"Rats!" he remarked to Annie, after viewing the boy's speckled surface. "That ain't measles. It's his natural badness working out. I knew it weren't healthy for him to be so good. If Mr. Carter don't make up his mind about that horse pretty soon the boy'll go into a decline."
 
But at last the question was on the point of being settled. Mr. Carter, having visited every horse dealer²⁹ in the neighbourhood, had, in his carefully methodical manner, almost made up his mind. The choice was a wiry little mustang, thin-limbed and built for running; he could give even Blue Gypsy some useful lessons in speed, and she had a racing³⁰ pedigree four generations long. Peter had fallen in love with the mustang; he wanted it almost as much as Bobby. And he realized that these next few days were a critical period; if the boy were discovered in any black offence, the horse would be postponed³¹ until his fourteenth birthday. His father had an unerring sense of duty in the matter of punishments.
 
It was Saturday and Mr. Carter would be out on the noon train. Peter drove to the station to meet him, still frowning over the question of Bobby and the revolver. He finally decided³² to warn the boy; there would be time enough to speak if the offence were repeated. Mr. Carter proved to be in an unusually genial³³ frame of mind. He chatted all the way out on matters pertaining to the stables; and as they drew up at the porte-cochère he paused to ask:
 
"Ah, Peter, about this new mustang for Master Bobby, what do you think?"
 
"He's a fine horse, sir, though I suspicion not too well broke. But he's got a good pair o' legs—I should say two pair, sir—an' sound wind. That's the main thing. We can finish his trainin' ourselves."
 
"Then you advise me to get him?"
 
"I should say that ye wouldn't be makin' no mistake. I'll be glad, sir, to see Master Bobby with a horse of his own. He's gettin' too heavy for Toddles³⁴."
 
"Very well. I'll do it. You may have Blue Gypsy saddled immediately after luncheon³⁵ and I will ride over to Shannon Farms and close the deal."
 
At two o'clock Blue Gypsy stood pawing impatiently before the library door with Peter soothingly³⁶ patting her neck. Mr. Carter paused on the steps to survey her shining coat with the complaisant³⁷ approval of ownership.
 
"Pretty good animal, isn't she, Peter?"
 
"She is that," said Peter, heartily³⁸. "You'd search a long time before——"
 
His sentence broke down in the middle as his eye wandered to the stretch of lawn beyond the hedge. Patrick was visible hurrying toward them, a white envelope waving in his hand, plainly bent³⁹ on gaining the hole in the hedge and Mr. Carter's side before that gentleman's departure. Peter tried to cover his slip and induce his master to mount and ride off; but it was too late.
 
"Here, Peter, just hold her a minute longer. I think that note is for me."
 
Patrick with some difficulty squeezed himself through the hole—it had been made originally by Mr. Harry⁴⁰ so that he might run over and call on Miss Ethel without having to go around; and Mr. Harry was thin. Patrick emerged with hair awry⁴¹ and puffing⁴². He stood anxiously mopping his brow while Mr. Carter read the note. Peter likewise eyed his master with a touch of anxiety; he had a foreboding that the contents of the letter meant no good to the cause of the new mustang.
 
Mr. Carter ran his eye down the page with a quickly gathering⁴³ frown and then faced the man.
 
"You saw my son shoot the guinea fowl?"
 
"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 sprawling⁴⁴ on a bench by the tennis-court.
 
"Bobby! Come here."
 
He pulled himself together with obedient haste and advanced to meet his father, somewhat apprehensively⁴⁵, 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 covertly⁴⁶ studied Patrick. The man's air was apologetic; his accusation⁴⁷ 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 nervously⁴⁸ fumbling⁴⁹ 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 carving⁵⁰ his name on the handle of a racket, though his face, Peter noted⁵¹, 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 applied⁵² himself to shaping a "C."
 
Peter sat down on the end of the bench and regarded him soberly. He was uncertain in his own mind how he ought to deal with the case, but that it must be dealt with, and drastically, he knew. Peter was by no means a[Pg 221] Puritan. The boy could accomplish any amount of mischief—go crabbing instead of to Sunday-school, play fox and geese over the newly sprouted⁵³ garden, break windows and hotbeds, steal cake from the pantry and peaches from Judge Benedict's orchard⁵⁴, and Peter would always shield him. His code of morals was broad, but where he did draw the line he drew it tight. Bobby's sins must be the sins of a gentleman, and Peter's definition of "gentleman" was old fashioned and strict.
 
Bobby grew restless under the silent scrutiny⁵⁵.
 
"What do you want?" he asked crossly. "If you don't look out you'll make me cut my hand."
 
He closed the large blade with an easy air of unconcern, and opening a smaller one, fell to work again. The knife was equipped with five blades and a corkscrew; it was one of the dignities to which Bobby had attained⁵⁶ on his recent birthday. Peter stretched out his hand and, taking possession of the knife, snapped it shut and returned it.
 
"Put it in yer pocket an' pay attention to me."
 
"Oh, don't bother, Pete. I'm busy."
 
"Your father will be home before long," said Peter, significantly.
 
"Well, fire ahead. What do you want?"
 
"Ye told a lie—two o' them, to be accurate. Ye were one o' them boys that shot the chicken an' ye did have the pistol."
 
"I didn't shoot his old chicken; it was Bert Holliday. And anyway he didn't mean to; it flew straight in front of the target just as he fired."
 
"He had no business to be firin'. But it's not the chicken I'm mournin' about; it's the lie."
 
"It's none of your business," said Bobby, sullenly⁵⁷.
 
"Then I'll make it me business! Either ye goes to yer father an' tells him ye lied, or I will. Ye can take yer choice."
 
"Peter," Bobby began to plead, "he'll not give me the mustang—you know he won't. I didn't mean to touch the revolver, but Bert forgot his air rifle, and the boys were waiting to have a shooting match. I won't do it again—honest, Peter—hope to die."
 
"It ain't no use, Master Bobby. Ye can't wheedle⁵⁸ me. Ye told a lie an' ye've got to be punished. Gentlemen don't tell lies—leastways, not direct. They hires a lawyer like Judge Benedict to do it for them. If ye keep on ye'll grow to be like the Judge yerself."
 
Bobby smiled wanly⁵⁹. The Judge, as Peter knew well, was his chiefest aversion, owing to an unfortunate meeting under the peach trees.
 
"You've told lots of lies yourself!"
 
"There's different kinds o' lies," said Peter, "an' this is the kind that I don't tell. It ain't that I'm fond o' carrying tales," he added, "but that I wants to see ye grow up to be a thoroughbred."
 
Bobby changed his tactics.
 
"Father'll feel awfully⁶⁰ bad; I hate to have him find it out."
 
Peter suppressed a grin.
 
"Boys ought always to be considerate o' their fathers' feelin's," he conceded.
 
"And you know, Pete, that you want me to have the mustang. You said yourself that it was a shame for a big boy like me to be riding Toddles."
 
Peter folded his arms and studied the distance a moment with thoughtful eyes; then he faced his companion with the air of pronouncing an ultimatum⁶¹.
 
"I'll tell ye what I'll do, Master Bobby, since ye're so anxious to save yer father's feelin's. I'll agree not to mention the matter, an' ye can take yer punishment from me at the end of a strap⁶²."
 
Bobby stared.
 
"Do you mean," he gasped⁶⁴, "that you want to whip me?"
 
"Well, no, I............