“Pendin’ the arrival of the constable. You can talk to him when he gets here; I guess he’ll answer all the questions you want to ask him.” The farmer chuckled. Roy appeared to be in real danger of exploding with anger.
“Leave this to me,” whispered Chub. Then, “and about how long do you think we’ll have to wait for the constable?” he inquired of Mr. Ewing. The farmer cast an eye toward the sun.
“About half an hour, I guess,” he replied. “He promised to be over about nine.”
“As early as that, eh?” murmured Chub, reflectively. “I hate to put him to so much trouble. I do hope you and he didn’t lose much time last night looking for us. We were so sorry we couldn’t stay until you returned, but we had an engagement we just had to keep.”
“Don’t you bother about me,” growled the farmer. “Think you’re pretty smart, I guess, don’t ye? Maybe you did fool me last night, but I sort o’ guess I’ve got ye this time, eh?”
“It does look like it,” admitted Chub, reluctantly. “But then you’re too smart for us, anyway, I suppose.”
“Huh,” grunted the farmer, suspiciously.
