Mark Manning's Mission

"There were some cows there I remember; I suppose old Whitey was among them."

"Did your gun go off while you were in the pasture?"

"Ye—es, I believe it did. It went off accidentally."

"And hit old Whitey?"

"I don't know about that. It may not have hit anything."

"Then you don't know that you hit my cow?"

"I wasn't the only boy in the pasture this afternoon," said James, evasively.

"I know all about that. Tom Wyman was with you."

"Yes, and so was Mark Manning. He was out gunning most all the afternoon. Have you asked him whether he hit the cow?"

"Yes," answered the deacon; "he says he didn't."

"Of course he would say so," sneered James, more confidently. "He's just as likely to have done it as I."

"That's what I thought myself," returned the deacon; "though Mark's a middlin' keerful boy. But I changed my mind."

"Because he denied it?" asked James, with a return of the sneer.

"Not exactly. There was a boy saw it done, and he told me who did it."

"What boy saw it done?" asked James, all his apprehensions reviving.

"John Downie."

This was startling news to James.

"And who does he say did it," he forced himself to ask.

"You!" answered Deacon Miller, laconically.

"I don't believe I did it," said James, wavering.

"He says after you shot the cow, you and Tom Wyman ran away as fast as your legs could carry you," added the deacon, chuckling.

James turned as red as scarlet, but said nothing. It was clear enough that he was guilty, and knew it.

"Deacon Miller," said Squire Collins, "I will look into this matter, and if I find James shot your cow, we will make some arrangement about payment. Understand clearly, however, that I won't pay any fancy price, such as fifty dollars."

"I won't argy the matter now, squire," said the deacon. "Good-evenin'."

"James," said his father, "I won't scold you for a piece of carelessness, but whatever compensation is paid to the deacon must come from your account in the savings' bank."

This was a sad blow to James, he had a hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, and this would make a heavy draft upon it.

He went out into the yard without a word.

"It's all up, Tom," he said. "John Downie has been telling tales about me. The first time I see him I'll give him a licking."

"And serve him right, too, little tell-tale!" said Tom.

Johnny did not expect what was in store for him, but he was soon to be enlightened.

CHAPTER X.

MARK PROTECTS A FRIEND

Squire Collins succeeded in reducing the deacon's claim to thirty-eight dollars, and this sum James was obliged to withdraw from his savings in the bank. He thought it was very hard, as the shooting was merely an accident. He was fond of money, scarcely less so than Deacon Miller himself, and it went to his heart to find himself so much poorer than before.

"It isn't as if I got any fun out of it," he complained to Tom. "It's just money thrown away."

"It is a heavy sum to pay for a trifling carelessness," admitted Tom.

"And I shouldn't have had a cent to pay but for John Downie. Why need the boy turn tell-tale?"

"It was mean."

"Mean? I should say so. I mean to come up with the fellow. I mean to give him the worst licking he ever had."

Even if Tom disapproved of the intention, he at any rate did not express any disapproval, but left it to be understood that he considered it perfectly proper.

Three days later the opportunity came. Tom and James were crossing the pasture, which had been the scene of the tragedy, when John, whistling gayly, met them.

"Now's my chance," said James, triumphantly. "There's the sneak that told of me. See how I'll serve him."

John Downie, seeing the boys approaching, nodded his head, saying in a friendly manner, "hello!"

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said James, in a hostile tone, stopping short.

"Yes, it's me. Who did you think it was?" returned John, laughing.

"I've been wanting to meet you, John Downie."

"What for?" asked John. He could not help seeing now that the speaker spoke like an enemy.

"To tell you that you are a sneak and a tell-tale."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded John, beginning himself to be angry.

"You ought to know without asking. Wasn't it you that told about my shooting old Whitey?"

"Well, you did shoot her, didn't you?"