“There, there!  That’s quite sufficient, thank you.  Do you know any of those men?” he asked, turning to the workman.

“Yes, sir, I guess I do.”

“Very well.  Go up and bring two of them here; not more than two, understand.”

Jed’s accuser departed.  Major Grover resumed his catechizing.

“What were you doing here?” he asked.

“Eh?  Me?  Oh, I was just picnicin’, as you might say, along with a little girl, daughter of a neighbor of mine.  She wanted to see where the soldiers was goin’ to fly, so I borrowed Perez Ryder’s power dory and we came over.  ‘Twas gettin’ along dinner time and I built a fire so as to cook. . . .  My soul!” with a gasp of consternation, “I forgot all about that chowder.  And now it’s got stone cold.  Yes, sir!” dropping on his knees and removing the cover of the kettle, “stone cold or next door to it.  Ain’t that a shame!”

Lieutenant Rayburn snorted in disgust.  His superior officer, however, merely smiled.

“Never mind the chowder just now,” he said.  “So you came over here for a picnic, did you?  Little late for picnics, isnt it?”

“Yes—­ye-es,” drawled Jed, “’tis kind of late, but ’twas a nice, moderate day and Babbie she wanted to come, so—­”

“Babbie?  That’s the little girl? . . .  Oh,” with a nod, “I remember now.  I saw a man with a little girl wandering about among the buildings a little while ago.  Was that you?”

“Ye-es, yes, that was me. . . .  Tut, tut, tut!  I’ll have to warm this chowder all up again now.  That’s too bad!”

Voices from behind the ridge announced the coming of the carpenter and the two “identifiers.”  The latter, Mr. Emulous Baker and Mr.  “Squealer” Wixon, were on the broad grin.

“Yup, that’s him,” announced Mr. Wixon.  “Hello, Shavin’s!  Got you took up for a German spy, have they?  That’s a good one! haw, haw!”

“Do you know him?” asked the major.

“Know him?” Mr. Wixon guffawed again.  “Known him all my life.  He lives over to Orham.  Makes windmills and whirlagigs and such for young-ones to play with.  He ain’t any spy.  His name’s Jed Winslow, but we always call him ‘Shavin’s,’ ‘count of his whittlin’ up so much good wood, you understand.  Ain’t that so, Shavin’s?  Haw, haw!”

Jed regarded Mr. Wixon mournfully.

“Um-hm,” he admitted.  “I guess likely you’re right, Squealer.”

“I bet you!  There’s only one Shavin’s in Orham.”

Jed sighed.  “There’s consider’ble many squealers,” he drawled; “some in sties and some runnin’ loose.”

Major Grover, who had appeared to enjoy this dialogue, interrupted it now.

“That would seem to settle the spy question,” he said.  “You may go, all three of you,” he added, turning to the carpenters.  They departed, Jed’s particular enemy muttering to himself and Mr. Wixon laughing uproariously.  The major once more addressed Jed.