is, as they left the main
road and struck into a wood path through the ranks of beeches on Tom
Grier's land.

"Nearly everybody on the Hollow farms," answered Will. "Until last
week nobody on the Hill farms had lost any. But Tuesday night old Paul
Stockton had six fine sheep killed in his upland pasture behind the
fir woods. He is furious about it, I believe, and vows he'll find out
what dog did it and have him shot."

Curtis looked grave. Paul Stockton's farm was only about a quarter of
a mile from the Locksley homestead, and he knew that Paul had an old
family grudge against his Uncle Arnold, which included his nephew and
all belonging to him. Moreover, Curtis remembered with a sinking heart
that Wednesday morning had been one of the mornings upon which Don was
missing.

"But I don't care!" he thought miserably. "I know Don didn't kill
those sheep."

"Talking of old Paul," said Will, who thought it advisable to turn the
conversation, "reminds me that they are getting anxious at the Harbour
about George Finley's schooner, the _Amy Reade_. She was due three
days ago and there's no sign of her yet. And there have been two bad
gales since she left Morro. Oscar Stockton is on board of her, you
know, and his father is worried about him. There are five other men on
her, all from the Harbour, and their folks down there are pretty wild
about the schooner."

Nothing more was said about the sheep, and soon, in the pleasures of
chestnutting, Curtis forgot his anxiety. Old Tom Grier had called to
the boys as they passed his house to come back and have dinner there
when the time came. This they did, and it was late in the afternoon
when Curtis, with his bag of chestnuts over his shoulder, walked into
the Locksley yard.

His uncle was standing before the open barn doors, talking to an
elderly, grizzled man with a thin, shrewd face.

Curtis's heart sank as he recognized old Paul Stockton. What could
have brought him over?

"Curtis," called his uncle, "come here."

As Curtis crossed the yard, Don came bounding down the slope from the
house to meet him. He put his hand on the dog's big head and the two
of them walked slowly to the barn. Old Paul included them both in a
vindictive scowl.

"Curtis," said his uncle gravely, "here's a bad business. Mr.
Stockton tells me that your dog has been worrying his sheep."

"It's a--" began Curtis angrily. Then he checked himself and went on
more calmly.

"That can't be so, Mr. Sto