"You've no business to jump at conclusions," he added sharply.

"If I judged you wrongly, I beg your pardon, Duncan. I'll speak to the
widow about it."

I began to move off toward the house. Duncan hurried after me and
caught me by the arm.

"You fool you, what do you mean?" he demanded.

"I'm going to find out if you are telling the truth."

"Isn't my word enough?"

"It will do no harm to ask," I replied evasively, not caring to pick a
quarrel, and yet morally sure that he was prevaricating.

"So you think I'm telling you a falsehood? I've a good mind to give
you a sound drubbing," he cried angrily.

Duncan Woodward had many of the traits of a bully about him. He was
the only son of a widower who nearly idolized him, and, lacking a
mother's guiding influence, he had grown up wayward in the extreme.

He was a tall, well-built fellow, strong from constant athletic
exercise, and given, on this account, to having his way among his
associates.

Yet I was not afraid of him. Indeed, to tell the truth, I was not