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The Daughter of Anderson Crow

by George Barr McCutcheon · English · Gutenberg #14818 · 459,986 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Daughter of Anderson Crow

Author: George Barr McCutcheon

Illustrator: Martin Justice


        
Release date: January 27, 2005 [eBook #14818]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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THE DAUGHTER OF ANDERSON CROW

by

GEORGE BARR MCCUTCHEON

Author of _Beverly of Graustark_, _Jane Cable_, etc.

With Illustrations by B. Martin Justice

New York
Dodd, Mead and Company

1907







[Illustration: Anderson Crow]




CONTENTS

CHAPTER
     I.  ANDERSON CROW, DETECTIVE
    II.  THE PURSUIT BEGINS
   III.  THE CULPRITS
    IV.  ANDERSON RECTIFIES AN ERROR
     V.  THE BABE ON THE DOORSTEP
    VI.  REFLECTION AND DEDUCTION
   VII.  THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
  VIII.  SOME YEARS GO BY
    IX.  THE VILLAGE QUEEN
     X.  ROSALIE HAS PLANS OF HER OWN
    XI.  ELSIE BANKS
   XII.  THE SPELLING-BEE
  XIII.  A TINKLETOWN SENSATION
   XIV.  A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY
    XV.  ROSALIE DISAPPEARS
   XVI.  THE HAUNTED HOUSE
  XVII.  WICKER BONNER, HARVARD
 XVIII.  THE MEN IN THE SLEIGH
   XIX.  WITH THE KIDNAPERS
    XX.  IN THE CAVE
   XXI.  THE TRAP-DOOR
  XXII.  JACK, THE GIANT KILLER
 XXIII.  TINKLETOWN'S CONVULSION
  XXIV.  THE FLIGHT OF THE KIDNAPERS
   XXV.  AS THE HEART GROWS OLDER
  XXVI.  THE LEFT VENTRICLE
 XXVII.  THE GRIN DERISIVE
XXVIII.  THE BLIND MAN'S EYES
  XXIX.  THE MYSTERIOUS QUESTIONER
   XXX.  THE HEMISPHERE TRAIN ROBBERY
  XXXI.  "AS YOU LIKE IT"
 XXXII.  THE LUCK OF ANDERSON CROW
XXXIII.  BILL BRIGGS TELLS A TALE
 XXXIV.  ELSIE BANKS RETURNS
  XXXV.  THE STORY IS TOLD
 XXXVI.  ANDERSON CROW'S RESIGNATION




ILLUSTRATIONS

   Anderson Crow (Frontispiece)

   "'Safe for a minute or two at least,' he whispered"

   "A baby, alive and warm, lay packed in the blankets"

   "September brought Elsie Banks"

   "The teacher was amazingly pretty on this eventful night"

   "'What is the meaning of all this?'"

   The haunted house

   Wicker Bonner

   "Rosalie was no match for the huge woman"

   "She shrank back from another blow which seemed impending"

   "Left the young man to the care of an excellent nurse"

   "'I think I understand, Rosalie'"

   "'I beg your pardon,' he said humbly'"

   "It was a wise, discreet old oak"

   "The huge automobile had struck the washout"





CHAPTER I

Anderson Crow, Detective


He was imposing, even in his pensiveness. There was no denying the fact
that he was an important personage in Tinkletown, and to the residents
of Tinkletown that meant a great deal, for was not their village a
perpetual monument to the American Revolution? Even the most
generalising of historians were compelled to devote at least a paragraph
to the battle of Tinkletown, while some of the more enlightened gave a
whole page and a picture of the conflict that brought glory to the
sleepy inhabitants whose ancestors were enterprising enough to
annihilate a whole company of British redcoats, once on a time.

Notwithstanding all this, a particularly disagreeable visitor from the
city once remarked, in the presence of half a dozen descendants (after
waiting twenty minutes at the post-office for a dime's worth of stamps),
that Tinkletown was indeed a monument, but he could not understand why
the dead had been left unburied. There was excellent cause for
resentment, but the young man and his stamps were far away before the
full force of the slander penetrated the brains of the listeners.

Anderson Crow was as imposing and as rugged as the tallest shaft of
marble in the little cemetery on the edge of the town. No one questioned
his power and authority, no one misjudged his altitude, and no one
overlooked his dignity. For twenty-eight years he had served Tinkletown
and himself in the triple capacity of town marshal, fire chief and
street commissioner. He had a system of government peculiarly his own;
and no one possessed the heart or temerity to upset it, no matter what
may have been the political inducements. It would have been like trying
to improve the laws of nature to put a new man in his place. He had
become a fixture that only dissolution could remove. Be it said,
however, that dissolution did not have its common and accepted meaning
when applied to Anderson Crow. For instance, in discoursing upon the
obnoxious habits of the town's most dissolute rake--Alf
Reesling--Anderson had more than once ventured the opinion that "he was
carrying his dissolution entirely too far."

And had not Anderson Crow risen to more than local distinction? Had not
his fame gone abroad throughout the land? Not only was he the Marshal of
Tinkletown at a salary of $200 a year, but he was president of the
County Horse-thief Detectives' Association and also a life-long delegate
to the State Convention of the Sons of the Revolution. Along that line,
let it be added, every parent in Tinkletown bemoaned the birth of a
daughter, because that simple circumstance of origin robbed the
society's roster of a new name.

Anderson Crow, at the age of forty-nine, had a proud official record
behind him and a guaranteed future ahead. Doubtless it was of this that
he was thinking, as he leaned pensively against the town hitching-rack
and gingerly chewed the blade of wire-grass which dangled even below the
chin whiskers that had been with him for twenty years. The faraway
expression in his watery-blue eyes gave evidence that he was as great
reminiscently as he was personally. So successful had been his career as
a law preserver, that of late years no evil-doer had had the courage to
ply his nefarious games in the community. The town drunkard, Alf
Reesling, seldom appeared on the streets in his habitual condition,
because, as he dolefully remarked, he would deserve arrest and
confinement for "criminal negligence," if for nothing else. The
marshal's fame as a detective had long since escaped from the narrow
confines of Tinkletown. He was well known at the county seat, and on no
less than three occasions had his name mentioned in the "big city"
papers in connection with the arrest of notorious horse-thieves.

And now the whole town was trembling with a new excitement, due to the
recognition accorded her triple official. On Monday morning he had
ventured forth from his office in the long-deserted "calaboose,"
resplendent in a brand-new nickel-plated star. By noon everybody in town
knew that he was a genuine "detective," a member of the great
organisation known as the New York Imperial Detective Association; and
that fresh honour had come to Tinkletown through the agency of a
post-revolution generation. The beauty of it all was that Anderson never
lost a shred of his serenity in explaining how the association had
implored him to join its forces, even going so far as to urge him to
come to New York City, where he could assist and advise in all of its
large operations. And, moreover, he had been obliged to pay but ten
dollars membership fee, besides buying the blazing star for the paltry
sum of three dollars and a quarter.

Every passer-by on this bright spring morning offered a respectful
"Howdy" to Anderson Crow, whose only recognition was a slow and
imposing nod of the head. Once only was he driven to relinquish his
pensive attitude, and that was when an impertinent blue-bottle fly
undertook to rest for a brief spell upon the nickel-plated star. Never
was blue-bottle more energetically put to flight.

But even as the Tinkletown Pooh-Bah posed in restful supremacy there
were rushing down upon him affairs of the epoch-making kind. Up in the
clear, lazy sky a thunderbolt was preparing to hurl itself into the very
heart of Tinkletown, and at the very head of Anderson Crow.

Afterward it was recalled by observing citizens that just before
noon--seven minutes to twelve, in fact--a small cloud no bigger than the
proverbial hand crossed the sun hurriedly as if afraid to tarry. At that
very instant a stranger drove up to the hitching-rack, bringing his
sweat-covered horse to a standstill so abruptly in front of the
marshal's nose that that dignitary's hat fell off backward.

"Whoa!" came clearly and unmistakably from the lips of the stranger who
held the reins. Half a dozen loafers on the post-office steps were
positive that he said nothing more, a fact that was afterward worth
remembering.

"Here!" exclaimed Anderson Crow wrathfully. "Do you know what you're
doin', consarn you?"

"I beg pardon," everybody within hearing heard the young man say. "Is
this the city of Tinkletown?" He said "city," they could swear, every
man's son of them.

"Yes, it is," answered the marshal severely. "What of it?"

"That's all. I just wanted to know. Where's the store?"

"Which store?" quite crossly. The stranger seemed nonplussed at this.

"Have you more than--oh, to be sure. I should say, where is the
_nearest_ store?" apologised the stranger.

"Well, this is a good one, I reckon," said Mr. Crow laconically,
indicating the post-office and general store.

"Will you be good enough to hold my horse while I run in there for a
minute?" calmly asked the new arrival in town, springing lightly from
the mud-spattered buggy. Anderson Crow almost staggered beneath this
indignity. The crowd gasped, and then waited breathlessly for the
withering process.

"Why--why, dod-gast you, sir, what do you think I am--a hitchin'-post?"
exploded on the lips of the new detective. His face was flaming red.

"You'll have to excuse me, my good man, but I thought I saw a
hitching-rack as I drove up. Ah, here it is. How careless of me. But
say, I won't be in the store more than a second, and it doesn't seem
worth while to tie the old crow-bait. If you'll just watch him--or
her--for a minute I'll be greatly obliged, and--"

"Watch your own horse," roared the marshal thunderously.

"Don't get huffy," cried the young man cheerily. "It will be worth a
quarter to you."

"Do you know who I am?" demanded Anderson Crow, purple to the roots of
his goatee.

"Yes, sir; I know perfectly well, but I refuse to give it away. Here,
take the bit, old chap, and hold Dobbin for about a minute and half,"
went on the stranger ruthlessly; and before Anderson Crow knew what had
happened he was actually holding the panting nag by the bit. The young
man went up the steps three at a time, almost upsetting Uncle Gideon
Luce, who had not been so spry as the others in clearing the way for
him. The crowd had ample time in which to study the face, apparel and
manner of this energetic young man.

That he was from the city, good-looking and well dressed, there was no
doubt. He was tall and his face was beardless; that much could be seen
at a glance. Somehow, he seemed to be laughing all the time--a fact that
was afterward recalled with some surprise and no little horror. At the
time, the loungers thought his smile was a merry one, but afterward they
stoutly maintained there was downright villainy in the leer. His coat
was very dusty, proving that he had driven far and swiftly. Three or
four of the loungers followed him into the store. He was standing before
the counter over which Mr. Lamson served his soda-water. In one hand he
held an envelope and in the other his straw hat. George Ray, more
observant than the rest, took note of the fact that it was with the hat
that he was fanning himself vigorously.

"A plain vanilla--please rush it along," commanded the stranger. Mr.
Lamson, if possible slower than the town itself, actually showed
unmistakable signs of acceleration. Tossing off the soda, the stranger
dried his lips with a blue-hemmed white handkerchief. "Is this the
post-office?" he asked.

"Yep," said Mr. Lamson, who was too penurious to waste words.

"Anything here for me?" demanded the newcomer.

"I'll see," said the postmaster, and from force of habit began looking
through the pile of letters without asking the man's name. Mr. Lamson
knew everybody in the county.

"Nothing here," taking off his spectacles conclusively.

"I didn't think there was," said the other complacently. "Give me a
bottle of witch hazel, a package of invisible hair-pins and a box of
parlor matches. Quick; I'm in a hurry!"

"Did you say hat-pins?"

"No, sir; I said hair-pins."

"We haven't any that ain't visible. How would safety-pins do?"

"Never mind; give me the bottle and the matches," said the other,
glancing at a very handsome gold watch. "Is the old man still holding my
horse?" he called to a citizen near the door. Seven necks stretched
simultaneously to accommodate him, and seven voices answered in the
affirmative. The stranger calmly opened the box of matches, filled his
silver match-safe, and then threw the box back on the counter, an
unheard-of piece of profligacy in those parts. "Needn't mind wrapping
up the bottle," he said.

"Don't you care for these matches?" asked Mr. Lamson in mild surprise.

"I'll donate them to the church," said the other, tossing a coin upon
the counter and dashing from the store. The crowd ebbed along behind
him. "Gentle as a lamb, isn't he?" he called to Anderson Crow, who still
clutched the bit. "Much obliged, sir; I'll do as much for you some day.
If you're ever in New York, hunt me up and I'll see that you have a good
time. What road do I take to Crow's Cliff?"

"Turn to your left here," said Anderson Crow before he thought. Then he
called himself a fool for being so obliging to the fellow.

"How far is it from here?"

"Mile and a half," again answered Mr. Crow helplessly. This time he
almost swore under his breath.

"But he can't get there," volunteered one of the bystanders.

"Why can't he?" demanded the marshal.

"Bridge over Turnip Creek is washed out. Did you forget that?"

"Of course not," promptly replied Mr. Crow, who _had_ forgotten it;
"But, dang it, he c'n swim, can't he?"

"You say the bridge is gone?" asked the stranger, visibly excited.

"Yes, and the crick's too high to ford, too."

"Well, how in thunder am I to get to Crow's Cliff?"

"There's another bridge four miles upstream. It's still there," said
George Ray. Anderson Crow had scornfully washed his hands of the affair.

"Confound the luck! I haven't time to drive that far. I have to be there
at half-past twelve. I'm late now! Is there no way to get across this
miserable creek?" He was in the buggy now, whip in hand, and his eyes
wore an anxious expression. Some of the men vowed later that he
positively looked frightened.

"There's a foot-log high and dry, and you can walk across, but you can't
get the horse and buggy over," said one of the men.

"Well, that's just what I'll have to do. Say, Mr. Officer, suppose you
drive me down to the creek and then bring the horse back here to a
livery stable. I'll pay you well for it. I must get to Crow's Cliff in
fifteen minutes."

"I'm no errant-boy!" cried Anderson Crow so wrathfully that two or three
boys snickered.

"You're a darned old crank, that's what you are!" exclaimed the stranger
angrily. Everybody gasped, and Mr. Crow staggered back against the
hitching-rail.

"See here, young man, none o' that!" he sputtered. "You can't talk that
way to an officer of the law. I'll--"

"You won't do anything, do you hear that? But if you knew who I am you'd
be doing something blamed quick." A dozen men heard him say it, and they
remembered it word for word.

"You go scratch yourself!" retorted Anderson Crow scornfully. That was
supposed to be a terrible challenge, but the stranger took no notice of
it.

"What am I to do with this horse and buggy?" he growled, half to
himself. "I bought the darned thing outright up in Boggs City, just
because the liveryman didn't know me and wouldn't let me a rig. Now I
suppose I'll have to take the old plug down to the creek and drown him
in order to get rid of him."

Nobody remonstrated. He looked a bit dangerous with his broad shoulders
and square jaw.

"What will you give me for the outfit, horse, buggy, harness and all?
I'll sell cheap if some one makes a quick offer." The bystanders looked
at one another blankly, and at last the concentrated gaze fell upon the
Pooh-Bah of the town. The case seemed to be one that called for his
attention; truly, it did not look like public property, this astounding
proposition.

"What you so derned anxious to sell for?" demanded Anderson Crow,
listening from a distance to see if he could detect a blemish in the
horse's breathing gear. At a glance, the buggy looked safe enough.

"I'm anxious to sell for cash," replied the stranger; and Anderson was
floored. The boy who snickered this time had cause to regret it, for Mr.
Crow arrested him half an hour later for carrying a bean-shooter. "I
paid a hundred dollars for the outfit in Boggs City," went on the
stranger nervously. "Some one make an offer--and quick! I'm in a rush!"

"I'll give five dollars!" said one of the onlookers with an apologetic
laugh. This was the match that started fire in the thrifty noddles of
Tinkletown's best citizens. Before they knew it they were bidding
against each other with the true "horse-swapping" instinct, and the
offers had reached $21.25 when the stranger unceremoniously closed the
sale by crying out, "Sold!" There is no telling how high the bids might
have gone if he could have waited half an hour or so. Uncle Gideon Luce
afterward said that he could have had twenty-four dollars "just as well
as not." They were bidding up a quarter at a time, and no one seemed
willing to drop out. The successful bidder was Anderson Crow.

"You can pay me as we drive along. Jump in!" cried the stranger, looking
at his watch with considerable agitation. "All I ask is that you drive
me to the foot-log that crosses the creek."




CHAPTER II

The Pursuit Begins


Fifteen minutes later Anderson Crow was parading proudly about the town.
He had taken the stranger to the creek and had seen him scurry across
the log to the opposite side, supplied with directions that would lead
him to the nearest route through the swamps and timberland to Crow's
Cliff. The stranger had Anderson's money in his pocket; but Anderson had
a very respectable sort of driving outfit to show for it. His wife kept
dinner for him until two o'clock, and then sent the youngest Crow out to
tell her father that he'd have to go hungry until supper-time.

It is no wonder that Anderson failed to reach home in time for the
midday meal. He started home properly enough, but what progress could he
make when everybody in town stopped him to inquire about the remarkable
deal and to have a look at the purchase. Without a single dissenting
voice, Tinkletown said Anderson had very much the "best of the bargain."
George Ray meant all right when he said, "A fool for luck," but he was
obliged to explain thoroughly the witticism before the proud Mr. Crow
could consider himself appeased.

It was not until he pulled up in front of the _Weekly Banner_
establishment to tell the reporter "the news" that his equanimity
received its first jar. He was quite proud of the deal, and, moreover,
he enjoyed seeing his name in the paper. In the meantime almost
everybody in Tinkletown was discussing the awful profligacy of the
stranger. It had not occurred to anybody to wonder why he had been in
such a hurry to reach Crow's Cliff, a wild, desolate spot down the
river.

"The hoss alone is worth fifty dollars easy," volunteered Mr. Crow
triumphantly. The detective's badge on his inflated chest seemed to
sparkle with glee.

"Say, Anderson, isn't it a little queer that he should sell out so
cheap?" asked Harry Squires, the local reporter and pressfeeder.

"What's that?" demanded Anderson Crow sharply.

"Do you think it's really true that he bought the nag up at Boggs City?"
asked the sceptic. Mr. Crow wallowed his quid of tobacco helplessly for
a minute or two. He could feel himself turning pale.

"He said so; ain't that enough?" he managed to bluster.

"It seems to have been," replied Harry, who had gone to night school in
Albany for two years.

"Well, what in thunder are you talking about then?" exclaimed Anderson
Crow, whipping up.

"I'll bet three dollars it's a stolen outfit!"

"You go to Halifax!" shouted Anderson, but his heart was cold. Something
told him that Harry Squires was right. He drove home in a state of dire
uncertainty and distress. Somehow, his enthusiasm was gone.

"Dang it!" he said, without reason, as he was unhitching the horse in
the barn lot.

"Hey, Mr. Crow!" cried a shrill voice from the street. He looked up and
saw a small boy coming on the run.

"What's up, Toby?" asked Mr. Crow, all a-tremble. He knew!

"They just got a telephone from Boggs City," panted the boy, "down to
the _Banner_ office. Harry Squires says for you to hurry down--buggy and
all. It's been stole."

"Good Lord!" gasped Anderson. His badge danced before his eyes and then
seemed to shrivel.

Quite a crowd had collected at the _Banner_ office. There was a sudden
hush when the marshal drove up. Even the horse felt the intensity of the
moment. He shied at a dog and then kicked over the dashboard, upsetting
Anderson Crow's meagre dignity and almost doing the same to the vehicle.

"You're a fine detective!" jeered Harry Squires; and poor old Anderson
hated him ever afterward.

"What have you heerd?" demanded the marshal.

"There's been a terrible murder at Boggs City, that's all. The chief of
police just telephoned to us that a farmer named Grover was found dead
in a ditch just outside of town--shot through the head, his pockets
rifled. It is known that he started to town to deposit four hundred
dollars hog-money in the bank. The money is missing, and so are his
horse and buggy. A young fellow was seen in the neighbourhood early this
morning--a stranger. The chief's description corresponds with the man
who sold that rig to you. The murderer is known to have driven in this
direction. People saw him going almost at a gallop."

It is not necessary to say that Tinkletown thoroughly turned inside out
with excitement. The whole population was soon at the post-office, and
everybody was trying to supply Anderson Crow with wits. He had lost his
own.

"We've got to catch that fellow," finally resolved the marshal. There
was a dead silence.

"He's got a pistol," ventured some one.

"How do you know?" demanded Mr. Crow keenly. "Did y' see it?"

"He couldn't ha' killed that feller 'thout a gun."

"That's a fact," agreed Anderson Crow. "Well, we've got to get him,
anyhow. I call for volunteers! Who will join me in the search?" cried
the marshal bravely.

"I hate to go to Crow's Cliff after him," said George Ray. "It's a
lonesome place, and as dark as night 'mong them trees and rocks."

"It's our duty to catch him. He's a criminal, and besides, he's killed a
man," said Crow severely.

"And he has twenty-one dollars of your money," added Harry Squires.
"I'll go with you, Anderson. I've got a revolver."

"Look out there!" roared Anderson Crow. "The blamed thing might go off!"
he added as the reporter drew a shiny six-shooter from his pocket.

The example set by one brave man had its influence on the crowd. A
score or more volunteered, despite the objections of their wives, and it
was not long before Anderson Crow was leading his motley band of sleuths
down the lane to the foot-log over which the desperado had gone an hour
before.

It was at the beginning of the man-hunt that various citizens recalled
certain actions and certain characteristics of the stranger which had
made them suspicious from the start. His prodigal disposition of the box
of matches impressed most of them as reckless dare-devilism; his haste,
anxiety, and a single instance of mild profanity told others of his
viciousness. One man was sure he had seen the stranger's watch chain in
farmer Grover's possession; and another saw something black on his
thumb, which he now remembered was a powder stain.

"I noticed all them things," averred Anderson Crow, supreme once more.

"But what in thunder did he want with those hair-pins?" inquired George
Ray.

"Never mind," said Anderson mysteriously. "You'll find out soon enough."

"Do you know Anderson?" some one asked.

"Of course I do," responded the marshal loftily.

"Well, what were they for, then?"

"I'm not givin' any clews away. You just wait a while and see if I'm not
right."

And they were satisfied that the detective knew all about it. After
crossing the foot-log the party was divided as to which direction it
should take. The marshal said the man had run to the southeast, but for
some inexplicable reason quite a number of the pursuers wanted to hunt
for him in the northwest. Finally it was decided to separate into posses
of ten, all to converge at Crow's Cliff as soon as possible. There were
enough double-barrelled shotguns in the party to have conquered a pirate
crew.

At the end of an hour Anderson Crow and his delegation came to the
narrow path which led to the summit of Crow's Cliff. They were very
brave by this time. A small boy was telling them he had seen the
fugitive about dinner-time "right where you fellers are standin' now."

"Did he have any blood on him?" demanded Anderson Crow.

"No, sir; not 'less it was under his clothes."

"Did he say anythin' to you?"

"He ast me where this path went to."

"See that, gentlemen!" cried Anderson. "I knew I was right. He wanted--"

"Well, where did he go?" demanded Harry Squires.

"I said it went to the top of the clift. An' then he said, 'How do you
git to the river?' I tole him to go down this side path here an' 'round
the bottom of the hill."

"Didn't he go up the cliff?" demanded the marshal.

"No, sir."

"Well, what in thunder did he ask me where the cliff was if he--"

"So he went to the river, eh?" interrupted Squires. "Come on, men; he
went down through this brush and bottomland."

"He got lost, I guess," volunteered the boy.

"What!"

"'Cause he yelled at me after he'd gone in a-ways an' ast--an' ast--"
The boy paused irresolutely.

"Asked what?"

"He ast me where in h---- the path was."

"By ginger, that's him, right out an' out!" exclaimed Mr. Crow
excitedly.

"'Nen he said he'd give me a quarter if I'd show him the way; so I--"

"Did he give you the quarter?" questioned one of the men.

"Yep. He'd a roll of bills as big as my leg." Everybody gasped and
thought of Grover's hog-money.

"You went to the river with him?" interrogated the reporter.

"I went as fur as the clearin', an' then he tole me to stop. He said he
could find the way from there. After that he run up the bank as if some
one was after him. There was a boat waitin' fer him under the clift."

"Did he get into it?" cried Squires.

"He tole me not to look or he'd break my neck," said the boy. The posse
nervously fingered its arsenal.

"But you _did_ look?"

"Yep. I seen 'em plain."

"Them? Was there more than one?"

"There was a woman in the skift."

"You don't say so!" gasped Squires.

"Dang it, ain't he tellin' you!" Anderson ejaculated scornfully.

The boy was hurried off at the head of the posse, which by this time had
been reinforced. He led the way through the dismal thickets, telling his
story as he went.

"She was mighty purty, too," he said. "The feller waved his hat when he
seen her, an' she waved back. He run down an' jumped in the boat, an'
'nen--'nen--"

"Then what?" exploded Anderson Crow.

"He kissed her!"

"The d---- murderer!" roared Crow.

"He grabbed up the oars and rowed 'cross an' downstream. An' he shuck
his fist at me when he see I'd been watchin'," said the youngster, ready
to whimper now that he realised what a desperate character he had been
dealing with.

"Where did he land on the other side?" pursued the eager reporter.

"Down by them willer trees, 'bout half a mile down. There's the skift
tied to a saplin'. Cain't you see it?"

Sure enough, the stern of a small boat stuck out into the deep, broad
river, the bow being hidden by the bushes.

"Both of 'em hurried up the hill over yender, an' that's the last I seen
of 'em," concluded the lad.

Anderson Crow and his man-hunters stared helplessly at the broad, swift
river, and then looked at each other in despair. There was no boat in
sight except the murderer's, and there was no bridge within ten miles.

While they were growling a belated detachment of hunters came up to the
river bank greatly agitated.

"A telephone message has just come to town sayin' there would be a
thousand dollars reward," announced one of the late arrivals; and
instantly there was an imperative demand for boats.

"There's an old raft upstream a-ways," said the boy, "but I don't know
how many it will kerry. They use it to pole corn over from Mr.
Knoblock's farm to them big summer places in the hills up yender."

"Is it sound?" demanded Anderson Crow.

"Must be or they wouldn't use it," said Squires sarcastically. "Where is
it, kid?"

The boy led the way up the river bank, the whole company trailing
behind.

"Sh! Not too loud," cautioned Anderson Crow. Fifteen minutes later a
wobbly craft put out to sea, manned by a picked crew of determined
citizens of Tinkletown. When they were in midstream a loud cry came from
the bank they had left behind. Looking back, Anderson Crow saw excited
men dashing about, most of them pointing excitedly up into the hills
across the river. After a diligent search the eyes of the men on the
raft saw what it was that had created such a stir at the base of Crow's
Cliff.

"There he is!" cried Anderson Crow in awed tones. There was no mistaking
the identity of the coatless man on the hillside. A dozen men recognised
him as the man they were after. Putting his hands to his mouth, Anderson
Crow bellowed in tones that savoured more of fright than command:

"Say!"

There was no response.

"Will you surrender peaceably?" called the captain of the craft.

There was a moment of indecision on the part of the fugitive. He looked
at his companion, and she shook her head--they all saw her do it.

Then he shouted back his reply.

[Illustration: Then he shouted back his reply]




CHAPTER III

The Culprits


"Ship ahoy!" shouted the coatless stranger between his palms.

"Surrender or we'll fill you full of lead!" called Anderson Crow.

"Who are you--pirates?" responded the fugitive with a laugh that chilled
the marrow of the men on the raft.

"I'll show you who we are!" bellowed Anderson Crow. "Send her ashore,
boys, fast. The derned scamp sha'n't escape us. Dead er alive, we must
have him."

As they poled toward the bank the woman grasped the man by the arm,
dragging him back among the trees. It was observed by all that she was
greatly terrified. Moreover, she was exceedingly fair to look
upon--young, beautiful, and a most incongruous companion for the bloody
rascal who had her in his power. The raft bumped against the reedy bank,
and Anderson Crow was the first man ashore.

"Come on, boys; follow me! See that your guns are all right! Straight up
the hill now, an' spread out a bit so's we can surround him!" commanded
he in a high treble.

"'But supposin' he surrounds us," panted a cautious pursuer, half way up
the hill.

"That's what we've got to guard against," retorted Anderson Crow. The
posse bravely swept up to and across the greensward; but the fox was
gone: There was no sight or sound of him to be had. It is but just to
say that fatigue was responsible for the deep breath that came from each
member of the pursuing party.

"Into the woods after him!" shouted Anderson Crow. "Hunt him down like a
rat!"

In the meantime a coatless young man and a most enticing young woman
were scampering off among the oaks and underbrush, consumed by
excitement and no small degree of apprehension.

"They really seem to be in earnest about it, Jack," urged the young
woman insistently, to offset his somewhat sarcastic comments.

"How the dickens do you suppose they got onto me?" he groaned. "I
thought the tracks were beautifully covered. No one suspected, I'm
sure."

"I told you, dear, how it would turn out," she cried in a panic-stricken
voice.

"Good heavens, Marjory, don't turn against me! It all seemed so easy and
so sure, dear. There wasn't a breath of suspicion. What are we to do?
I'll stop and fight the whole bunch if you'll just let go my arm."

"No, you won't, Jack Barnes!" she exclaimed resolutely, her pretty blue
eyes wide with alarm. "Didn't you hear them say they'd fill you full of
lead? They had guns and everything. Oh, dear! oh, dear! isn't it
horrid?"

"The worst of it is they've cut us off from the river," he said
miserably. "If I could have reached the boat ahead of them they never
could have caught us. I could distance that old raft in a mile."

"I know you could, dear," she cried, looking with frantic admiration
upon his broad shoulders and brawny bare arms. "But it is out of the
question now."

"Never mind, sweetheart; don't let it fuss you so. It will turn out all
right, I know it will."

"Oh, I can't run any farther," she gasped despairingly.

"Poor little chap! Let me carry you?"

"You big ninny!"

"We are at least three miles from your house, dear, and surrounded by
deadly perils. Can you climb a tree?"

"I can--but I won't!" she refused flatly, her cheeks very red.

"Then I fancy we'll have to keep on in this manner. It's a confounded
shame--the whole business. Just as I thought everything was going so
smoothly, too. It was all arranged to a queen's taste--nothing was left
undone. Bracken was to meet us at his uncle's boathouse down there,
and--good heavens, there was a shot!"

The sharp crack of a rifle broke upon the still, balmy air, as they say
in the "yellow-backs," and the fugitives looked at each other with
suddenly awakened dread.

"The fools!" grated the man.

"What do they mean?" cried the breathless girl, very white in the face.

"They are trying to frighten us, that's all. Hang it! If I only knew the
lay of the land. I'm completely lost, Marjory. Do you know precisely
where we are?"

"Our home is off to the north about three miles. We are almost opposite
Crow's Cliff--the wildest part of the country. There are no houses along
this part of the river. All of the summer houses are farther up or on
the other side. It is too hilly here. There is a railroad off there
about six miles. There isn't a boathouse or fisherman's hut nearer than
two miles. Mr. Bracken keeps his boat at the point--two miles south, at
least."

"Yes; that's where we were to have gone--by boat. Hang it all! Why did
we ever leave the boat? You can never scramble through all this brush to
Bracken's place; it's all I can do. Look at my arms! They are scratched
to--"

"Oh, dear! It's dreadful, Jack. You poor fellow, let me--"

"We haven't time, dearest. By thunder, I wouldn't have those Rubes head
us off now for the whole county. The jays! How could they have found us
out?"

"Some one must have told."

"But no one knew except the Brackens, you and I."

"I'll wager my head Bracken is saying hard things for fair down the river there."

"He--he--doesn't swear, Jack," she panted.

[Illustration: "'Safe for a minute or two at least,' he whispered"]

"Why, you are ready to drop! Can't you go a step farther? Let's stop
here and face 'em. I'll bluff 'em out and we'll get to Bracken's some
way. But I _won't_ give up the game! Not for a million!"

"Then we can't stop. You forget I go in for gymnasium work. I'm as
strong as anything, only I'm--I'm a bit nervous. Oh, I knew something
would go wrong!" she wailed. They were now standing like trapped deer in
a little thicket, listening for sounds of the hounds.

"Are you sorry, dear?"

"No, no! I love you, Jack, and I'll go through everything with you and
for you. Really," she cried with a fine show of enthusiasm, "this is
jolly good fun, isn't it? Being chased like regular bandits--"

"Sh! Drop down, dear! There's somebody passing above us--hear him?"

They crawled into a maze of hazel bushes with much less dignity than
haste. Two men sped by an instant later, panting and growling.

"Safe for a minute or two at least," he whispered as the crunching
footsteps were lost to the ear. "They won't come back this way, dear."

"They had guns, Jack!" she whispered, terrified.

"I don't understand it, hanged if I do," he said, pulling his brows into
a mighty scowl. "They are after us like a pack of hounds. It must mean
something. Lord, but we seem to have stirred up a hornet's nest!"

"Oh, dear, I wish we were safely at--" she paused.

"At home?" he asked quickly.

"At Bracken's," she finished; and if any of the pursuers had been near
enough he might have heard the unmistakable suggestion of a kiss.

"I feel better," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Now, let me think. We
must outwit these fellows, whoever they are. By George, I remember one
of them! That old fellow who bought the horse is with them. That's it!
The horse is mixed up in this, I'll bet my head." They sat upon the
ground for several minutes, he thinking deeply, she listening with her
pretty ears intent.

"I wonder if they've left anybody to guard our boat?" he said suddenly.
"Come on, Marjory; let's investigate! By George, it would be just like
them to leave it unprotected!"

Once more they were moving cautiously through the brush, headed for the
river. Mr. Jack Barnes, whoever he was and whatever his crime, was a
resourceful, clever young man. He had gauged the intelligence of the
pursuers correctly. When he peered through the brush along the river
bank he saw the skiff in the reeds below, just as they had left it.
There was the lunch basket, the wee bit of a steamer trunk with all its
labels, a parasol and a small handbag.

"Goody, goody!" Marjory cried like a happy child.

"Don't show yourself yet, dearie. I'll make sure. They may have an
ambuscade. Wait here for me."

He crept down the bank and back again before she could fully subdue the
tremendous thumping his temerity had started in her left side.

"It's safe and sound," he whispered joyously. "The idiots have forgotten
the boat. Quick, dear; let's make a dash for it! Their raft is upstream
a hundred yards, and it is also deserted. If we can once get well across
the river we can give them the laugh."

"But they may shoot us from the bank," she protested as they plunged
through the weeds.

"They surely wouldn't shoot a woman!" he cried gayly.

"But you are not a woman!"

"And I'm not afraid of mice or men. Jump in!"

Off from the weeds shot the light skiff. The water splashed for a moment
under the spasmodic strokes of the oarsman, and then the little boat
streaked out into the river like a thing of life. Marjory sat in the
stern and kept her eyes upon the bank they were leaving. Jack Barnes
drove every vestige of his strength into the stroke; somehow he pulled
like a man who had learned how on a college crew. They were half way
across the broad river before they were seen from the hills. The half
dozen men who lingered at the base of Crow's Cliff had shouted the alarm
to their friends on the other side, and the fugitives were sighted once
more. But it was too late. The boat was well out of gunshot range and
making rapid progress downstream in the shelter of the high bluffs below
Crow's Cliff. Jack Barnes was dripping with perspiration, but his stroke
was none the feebler.

"They see us!" she cried.

"Don't wriggle so, Marjory--trim boat!" he panted. "They can't hit us,
and we can go two miles to their one."

"And we can get to Bracken's!" she cried triumphantly. A deep flush
overspread her pretty face.

"Hooray!" he shouted with a grin of pure delight. Far away on the
opposite bank Anderson Crow and his sleuths were congregating, their
baffled gaze upon the man who had slipped out of their grasp. The men
of the posse were pointing at the boat and arguing frantically; there
were decided signs of dispute among them. Finally two guns flew up, and
then came the puffs of smoke, the reports and little splashes of water
near the flying skiff.

"Oh, they are shooting!" she cried in a panic.

"And rifles, too," he grated, redoubling his pull on the oars. Other
shots followed, all falling short. "Get down in the bottom of the boat,
Marjory. Don't sit up there and be--"

"I'll sit right where I am," she cried defiantly.

Anderson Crow waved to the men under Crow's Cliff, and they began to
make their arduous way along the bank in the trail of the skiff. Part of
the armed posse hurried down and boarded the raft, while others followed
the chase by land.

"We'll beat them to Bracken's by a mile," cried Jack Barnes.

"If they don't shoot us," she responded. "Why, oh, why are they so
intent upon killing us?"

"They don't want you to be a widow and--break a--lot of hearts," he
said. "If they--hit me now you--won't be--dangerous as a--widow."

"Oh, you heartless thing! How can you jest about it? I'd--I'd go into
mourning, anyway, Jack," she concluded, on second thought. "We are just
as good as married, you see."

"It's nice--of you to say it, dear--but we're a long--way
from--Bracken's. Gee! That was close!"

A bullet splashed in the water not ten feet from the boat. "The cowards!
They're actually trying to kill us!" For the first time his face took
on a look of alarm and his eyes grew desperate. "I can't let them shoot
at you, Marjory, dear! What the dickens they want I don't know, but I'm
going to surrender." He had stopped rowing and was making ready to wave
his white handkerchief on high.

"Never!" she cried with blazing eyes. "Give me the oars!" She slid into
the other rowing seat and tried to snatch the oars from the rowlocks.

"Bravo! I could kiss you a thousand times for that. Come on, you
Indians! You're a darling, Marjory." Again the oars caught the water,
and Jack Barnes's white handkerchief lay in the bottom of the boat. He
was rowing for dear life, and there was a smile on his face.

The raft was left far behind and the marksmen were put out of range with
surprising ease. Fifteen minutes later the skiff shot across the river
and up to the landing of Bracken's boathouse, while a mile back in the
brush Anderson Crow and his men were wrathfully scrambling in pursuit.

"Hey, Bracken! Jimmy!" shouted Jack Barnes, jumping out upon the little
wharf. Marjory gave him her hands and was whisked ashore and into his
arms. "Run into the boathouse, dear. I'll yank this stuff ashore. Where
the dickens is Bracken?"

The boathouse door opened slowly and a sleepy young man looked forth.

"I thought you'd never come," he yawned.

"Wake up, you old loafer! We're here and we are pursued! Where are
George and Amy?" cried Mr. Barnes, doing herculean duty as a baggage
smasher.

"Pursued?" cried the sleepy young man, suddenly awake.

"Yes, and shot at!" cried Marjory, running past him and into the arms of
a handsome young woman who was emerging from the house.

"We've no time to lose, Jimmy! They are on to us, Heaven knows how. They
are not more than ten minutes behind us. Get it over with, Jimmy, for
Heaven's sake! Here, George, grab this trunk!"




CHAPTER IV

Anderson Rectifies an Error


In a jiffy the fugitives and their property were transferred to the
interior of the roomy boathouse, the doors bolted, and George Crosby
stationed at a window to act as lookout.

"Is it your father?" demanded the Rev. James Bracken, turning to
Marjory. Young Mrs. Crosby was looking on eagerly.

"Mr. Brewster is at home and totally oblivious to all this," cried Jack
Barnes. "I don't know what it means. Here's the license, Jimmy. Are you
ready, Marjory?"

"This is rather a squeamish business, Jack--" began the young minister
in the negligée shirt. He was pulling on his coat as he made the remark.

"Oh, hurry, Jimmy; please hurry!" cried Marjory Brewster.

"Don't wait a second, Jimmy Bracken!" cried Amy Crosby, dancing with
excitement. "You can't go back on them now!"

Three minutes later there was no Marjory Brewster, but there was a Mrs.
John Ethelbert Barnes--and she was kissing her husband rapturously.

"Now, tell us everything," cried Mrs. Crosby after the frantic
congratulations. The Reverend "Jimmy" Bracken, of the Eleventh
Presbyterian Church, was the only one who seemed uncertain as to his
position. In the first place, old Judge Brewster was a man of influence
in the metropolis, from which all had fled for a sojourn in the hills.
He and his daughter were Episcopalians, but that made them none the less
important in the eyes of "Jimmy" Bracken. In the second place, Jack
Barnes was a struggling lawyer, in the Year of our Lord 1880, and
possessed of objectionable poverty. The young men had been room-mates at
college. Friendship had overcome discretion in this instance, at least.
The deed being done, young Mr. Bracken was beginning to wonder if it had
not been overdone, so to speak.

"I wish somebody would tell me!" exclaimed Jack Barnes, with a perplexed
frown. "The beastly jays shot at us and all that. You'd think I was an
outlaw. And they blazed away at Marjory, too, hang them!"

Marjory, too excited to act like a blushing bride, took up the story and
told all that had happened. George Crosby became so interested that he
forgot to keep guard.

"This is a funny mess!" he exclaimed. "There's something wrong--"

"Hey, you!" came a shout from the outside.

"There they are!" cried Marjory, flying to her husband's side. "What are
we to do?"

"You mean, what are they to do? We're married, and they can't get around
that, you know. Let 'em come!" cried the groom exultantly. "You don't
regret it, do you, sweetheart?" quite anxiously. She smiled up into his
eyes, and he felt very secure.

"What do you fellows want?" demanded Crosby from the window. Anderson
Crow was standing on the river bank like a true Napoleon, flanked by
three trusty riflemen.

"Who air you?" asked Anderson in return. He was panting heavily, and his
legs trembled.

"None of your business! Get off these grounds at once; they're private!"

"None o' your sass, now, young man; I'm an officer of the law, an' a
detective to boot! We sha'n't stand any nonsense. The place is
surrounded and he can't escape! Where is he?"

"That's for you to find out if you're such a good detective! This is
David Bracken's place, and you can find him at his home on the hilltop
yonder!"

"Ask him what we've done, George," whispered Barnes.

"We ain't after Mr. Bracken, young feller, but you know what we _do_
want! He's in there--you're shielding him--we won't parley much longer!
Send him out!" said Anderson Crow.

"If you come a foot nearer you'll get shot into the middle of kingdom
come!" shouted Crosby defiantly.

The inmates gasped, for there was not a firearm on the place.

"Be careful!" warned the Reverend "Jimmy" nervously.

"Goin' to resist, eh? Well, we'll get him; don't you worry; an' that
ornery female o' hisn', too!"

"Did you hear that?" exclaimed Jack Barnes. "Let me get at the old rat."
He was making for the door when the two women obstructed the way. Both
were frantic with fear.

"But he called you a female!" roared he.

"Well, I _am_!" she wailed miserably.

"Who is it you want?" asked Crosby from the window.

"That's all right," roared Anderson Crow; "purduce him at once!"

"Is this the fellow?" and Crosby dragged the Reverend "Jimmy" into view.
There was a moment's inspection of the cadaverous face, and then the
sleuths shook their heads.

"Not on your life!" said Mr. Crow. "But he's in there--Ike Smalley seen
him an' his paramount go up the steps from the landin'! 'Twon't do no
good to hide him, young feller; he's--"

"Well, let me tell you something. You are too late--they're married!"
cried Crosby triumphantly.

"I don't give a cuss if they're married and have sixteen children!"
shouted the exasperated Crow, his badge fairly dancing. "He's got to
surrender!"

"Oh, he does, eh?"

"Yes, sir-ee-o-bob; he's got to give up, dead or alive! Trot him out
lively, now!"

"I don't mind telling you that Mr. Barnes is here; but I'd like to know
why you're hunting him down like a wild beast, shooting at him and
Miss--I mean Mrs. Barnes. It's an outrage!"

"Oh, we ain't the on'y people that can kill and slaughter! She's just
as bad as he is, for that matter--an' so are you and that other
lantern-jawed outlaw in there." The Reverend "Jimmy" gasped and turned a
fiery red.

"Did he call me a--say!" and he pushed Crosby aside. "I'd have you to
understand that I'm a minister of the gospel--I am the Reverend James
Bracken, of--"

A roar of laughter greeted his attempt to explain; and there were a few
remarks so uncomplimentary that the man of cloth sank back in sheer
hopelessness.

"Well, I'll give them reason to think that I'm something of a
desperado," grated the Reverend "Jimmy," squaring his shoulders. "If
they attempt to put foot inside my uncle's house I'll--I'll smash a few
heads."

"Bravo!" cried Mrs. Crosby. She was his cousin, and up to that time had
had small regard for her mild-mannered relative.

"He can preach the funeral!" shouted Ike Smalley. By this time there
were a dozen men on the bank below.

"I give you fair warning," cried Anderson Crow impressively. "We're
goin' to surround the house, an' we'll take that rascal if we have to
shoot the boards into sawdust!"

"But what has he done, except to get married?" called Crosby as the
posse began to spread out.

"Do you s'pose I'm fool enough to tell you if you don't know?" said
Anderson Crow. "Just as like as not you'd be claimin' the thousand
dollars reward if you knowed it had been offered! Spread out, boys, an'
we'll show 'em dern quick!"

There was dead silence inside the house for a full minute. Every eye was
wide and every mouth was open in surprise and consternation.

"A thousand dollars reward!" gasped Jack Barnes. "Then, good Lord, I
_must_ have done something!"

"What _have_ you been doing, Jack Barnes?" cried his bride, aghast.

"I must have robbed a train," said he dejectedly.

"Well, this is serious, after all," said Crosby. "It's not an eloper
they're after, but a desperado."

"A kidnaper, perhaps," suggested his wife.

"What are we to do?" demanded Jack Barnes.

"First, old man, what have you actually done?" asked the Reverend
"Jimmy."

"Nothing that's worth a thousand dollars, I'm dead sure," said Barnes
positively. "By George, Marjory, this is a nice mess I've led you into!"

"It's all right, Jack; I'm happier than I ever was before in my life. We
ran away to get married, and I'll go to jail with you if they'll take
me."

"This is no time for kissing," objected Crosby sourly. "We must find out
what it all means. Leave it to me."

It was getting dark in the room, and the shadows were heavy on the
hills. While the remaining members of the besieged party sat silent and
depressed upon the casks and boxes, Crosby stood at the window calling
to the enemy.

"Is he ready to surrender?" thundered Anderson Crow from the shadows.

Then followed a brief and entirely unsatisfactory dialogue between the
two spokesmen. Anderson Crow was firm in his decision that the fugitive
did not have to be told what he had done; and George Crosby was equally
insistent that he had to be told before he could decide whether he was
guilty or innocent.

"We'll starve him out!" said Anderson Crow.

"But there are ladies here, my good man; you won't subject them to such
treatment!"

"You're all of a kind--we're going to take the whole bunch!"

"What do you think will happen to you if you are mistaken in your man?"

"We're not mistaken, dang ye!"

"He could sue you for every dollar you possess. I know, for I'm a
lawyer!"

"Now, I'm sure you're in the job with him. I s'pose you'll try to work
in the insanity dodge! It's a nest of thieves and robbers! Say, I'll
give you five minutes to surrender; if you don't, we'll set fire to the
derned shanty!"

"Look here, boys," said Jack Barnes suddenly, "I've done nothing and am
not afraid to be arrested. I'm going to give myself up." Of course there
was a storm of protest and a flow of tears, but the culprit was firm.
"Tell the old fossil that if he'll guarantee safety to me I'll give up!"

Anderson was almost too quick in promising protection.

"Ask him if he will surrender and make a confession to me--I am Anderson
Crow, sir!" was the marshal's tactful suggestion.

"He'll do both, Mr. Crow!" replied Crosby.

"We've got to take the whole bunch of you, young man. You're all guilty
of conspiracy, the whole caboodle!"

"But the ladies, you darned old Rube--they can't--"

"Looky here, young feller, you can't dictate to me. I'll have you to--"

"We'll all go!" cried Mrs. Crosby warmly.

"To the very end!" added the new Mrs. Barnes.

"What will your father say?" demanded the groom.

"He'll disown me anyway, dear, so what's the difference?"

"It's rather annoying for a minister--" began the Reverend "Jimmy,"
putting on his hat.

"We'll beg off for you!" cried Mrs. Crosby ironically.

"But I'm going to jail, too," finished he grimly.

"All right," called Crosby from the window; "here we come!"

And forth marched the desperate quintet, three strapping young men and
two very pretty and nervous young women. They were met by Anderson Crow
and a dozen armed men from Tinkletown, every one of them shaking in his
boots. The irrepressible Mrs. Crosby said "Boo!" suddenly, and half the
posse jumped as though some one had thrown a bomb at them.

"Now, I demand an explanation of this outrage," said Jack Barnes
savagely. "What do you mean by shooting at me and my--my wife and
arresting us, and all that?"

"You'll find out soon enough when you're strung up fer it," snarled
Anderson Crow. "An' you'll please hand over that money I paid fer the
hoss and buggy. I'll learn you how to sell stolen property to me."

"Oh, I'm a horse-thief, am I? This is rich. And they'll string me up,
eh? Next thing you'll be accusing me of killing that farmer up near
Boggs City."

"Well, by gosh! you're a cool one!" ejaculated Anderson Crow. "I s'pose
you're goin' ter try the insanity dodge."

"It's lucky for me that they caught him," said Barnes as the herd of
prisoners moved off toward the string of boats tied to Mr. Bracken's
wharf.

"Come off!" exclaimed Squires, the reporter, scornfully. "We're onto
you, all right, all right."

"What! Do you think I'm the man who--well, holy mackerel! Say, you
gravestones, don't you ever hear any news out here? Wake up! They caught
the murderer at Billsport, not more than five miles from your jay burg.
I was driving through the town when they brought him in. That's what
made me late, dear," turning to Marjory.

"Yes, and I'll bet my soul that here comes some one with the news,"
cried George Crosby, who had heard nothing of the tragedy until this
instant.

A rowboat containing three men was making for the landing. Somehow,
Anderson Crow and his posse felt the ground sinking beneath them. Not a
man uttered a sound until one of the newcomers called out from the boat:

"Is Anderson Crow there?"

"Yes, sir; what is it?" demanded Crow in a wobbly voice.

"Your wife wants to know when in thunder you're comin' home." By this
time the skiff was bumping against the landing.

"You tell her to go to Halifax!" retorted Anderson Crow. "Is that all
you want?"

"They nabbed that murderer up to Billsport long 'bout 'leven o'clock,"
said Alf Reesling, the town drunkard. "We thought we'd row down and tell
you so's you wouldn't be huntin' all night for the feller who--hello,
you got him, eh?"

"Are you fellers lyin'?" cried poor Anderson Crow.

"Not on your life. We knowed about the captcher over in town just about
half an hour after you started 'cross the river this afternoon."

"You--four hours ago? You--you--" sputtered the marshal. "An' why didn't
you let us know afore this?"

"There was a game o' baseball in Hasty's lot, an'--" began one of the
newcomers sheepishly.

"Well, I'll be gosh-whizzled!" gasped Anderson Crow, sitting down
suddenly.

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour and a half later Mr. and Mrs. John Ethelbert Barnes were driven
up to Judge Brewster's country place in Mr. David Bracken's brake. They
were accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. George Crosby, and were carrying out
the plans as outlined in the original programme.

"Where's papa?" Marjory tremulously inquired of the footman in the
hallway.

"He's waitin' for you in the library, miss--I should say Mrs. Barnes,"
replied the man, a trace of excitement in his face.

"Mrs. Barnes!" exclaimed four voices at once.

"Who told you, William?" cried Marjory, leaning upon Jack for support.

"A Mr. Anderson Crow was here not half an hour ago, ma'am, to assure Mr.
Brewster as to how his new son-in-law was in nowise connected with the
murder up the way. He said as how he had personally investigated the
case, miss--ma'am, and Mr. Brewster could rely on his word for it, Mr.
Jack was not the man. He told him as how you was married at the
boathouse."

"Yes--and then?" cried Marjory eagerly.

"Mr. Brewster said that Mr. Jack wasn't born to be hanged, and for me to
have an extry plate laid at the table for him to-night," concluded
William with an expressive grin.




CHAPTER V

The Babe on the Doorstep


It was midnight in Tinkletown, many months after the events mentioned in
the foregoing chapters, and a blizzard was raging. The February wind
rasped through the bare trees, shrieked around the corners of lightless
houses and whipped its way through the scurrying snow with all the rage
of a lion. The snow, on account of the bitter cold in the air, did not
fly in big flakes, but whizzed like tiny bullets, cutting the flesh of
men and beasts like the sting of wasps. It was a good night to be
indoors over a roaring fire or in bed between extra blankets. No one,
unless commanded by emergency, had the temerity to be abroad that night.

The Crow family snoozed comfortably in spite of the calliope shrieks of
the wind. The home of the town marshal was blanketed in peace and the
wind had no terrors for its occupants. They slept the sleep of the
toasted. The windows may have rattled a bit, perhaps, and the shutters
may have banged a trifle too remorselessly, but the Crows were not to be
disturbed.

The big, old-fashioned clock in the hall downstairs was striking twelve
when Anderson Crow awoke with a start. He was amazed, for to awake in
the middle of the night was an unheard-of proceeding for him. He caught
the clang of the last five strokes from the clock, however, and was
comforting himself with the belief that it was five o'clock, after all,
when his wife stirred nervously.

"Are you awake, Anderson?" she asked softly.

"Yes, Eva, and it's about time to get up. It jest struck five. Doggone,
it's been blowin' cats and dogs outside, ain't it?" he yawned.

"Five? It's twelve-now, don't tell me you counted the strokes, because I
did myself. Ain't it queer we should both git awake at this unearthly
hour?"

"Well," murmured he sleepily now that it was not five o'clock, "it's a
mighty good hour to go back to sleep ag'in, I reckon."

"I thought I heard a noise outside," she persisted.

"I don't blame you," he said, chuckling. "It's been out there all
night."

"I mean something besides the wind. Sounded like some one walkin' on the
front porch."

"Now, look here, Eva, you ain't goin' to git me out there in this
blizzard--in my stockin' feet--lookin' fer robbers--"

"Just the same, Anderson, I'm sure I heard some one. Mebby it's some
poor creature freezin' an' in distress. If I was you, I'd go and look
out there. Please do."

"Doggone, Eva, if you was me you'd be asleep instid of huntin' up
trouble on a night like this. They ain't nothin' down there an'
you--but, by cracky! mebby you're right. Supposin' there is some poor
cuss out there huntin' a place to sleep. I'll go and look;" and Mr.
Crow, the most tender-hearted man in the world, crawled shiveringly but
quickly from the warm bed. In his stocking feet--Anderson slept in his
socks on those bitter nights--he made his way down the front stairs,
grumbling but determined. Mrs. Crow followed close behind, anxious to
verify the claim that routed him from his nest.

"It may be a robber," she chattered, as he pulled aside a front window
curtain. Anderson drew back hastily.

"Well, why in thunder didn't you say so before?" he gasped. "Doggone,
Eva, that's no way to do! He might 'a' fired through the winder at me."

"But he's in the house by this time, if it was a robber," she
whispered. "He wouldn't stand out on the porch all night."

"That's right," he whispered in reply. "You're a good deducer, after
all. I wish I had my dark lantern. Thunderation!" He stubbed his toe
against the sewing machine. There is nothing that hurts more than
unintentional contact with a sewing machine. "Why in sixty don't you
light a light, Eva? How can I--"

"Listen!" she whispered shrilly. "Hear that? Anderson, there's some one
walkin' on the porch!"

"'y gosh!" faltered he. "Sure as Christmas! You wait here, Eva, till I
go upstairs an' put on my badge and I'll--"

"I'll do nothing of the kind. You don't ketch me stayin' down here
alone," and she grabbed the back of his nightshirt as he started for the
stairs.

"Sho! What air you afeerd of? I'll get my revolver, too. I never did see
such a coward'y calf as--"

Just then there was a tremendous pounding on the front door, followed by
the creaking of footsteps on the frozen porch, a clatter down the steps,
and then the same old howling of the wind. The Crows jumped almost out
of their scanty garments, and then settled down as if frozen to the
spot. It was a full minute before Anderson found his voice--in advance
of Mrs. Crow at that, which was more than marvellous.

"What was that?" he chattered.

"A knock!" she gasped.

"Some neighbour's sick."

"Old Mrs. Luce. Oh, goodness, how my heart's going!"

"Why don't you open the door, Eva?"

"Why don't you? It's your place."

"But, doggone it, cain't you see--I mean feel--that I ain't got hardly
any clothes on? I'd ketch my death o' cold, an' besides--"

"Well, I ain't got as much on as you have. You got socks on an'--"

"But supposin' it's a woman," protested he. "You wouldn't want a woman
to see me lookin' like this, would you? Go ahead an'--"

"I suppose you'd like to have a man see me like this. I ain't used to
receivin' men in--but, say, whoever it was, is gone. Didn't you hear the
steps? Open the door, Anderson. See what it is."

And so, after much urging, Anderson Crow unbolted his front door and
turned the knob. The wind did the rest. It almost blew the door off its
hinges, carrying Mr. and Mrs. Crow back against the wall. A gale of snow
swept over them.

"Gee!" gasped Anderson, crimping his toes. Mrs. Crow was peering under
his arm.

"Look there!" she cried. Close to the door a large bundle was lying.

"A present from some one!" speculated Mr. Crow; but some seconds passed
before he stooped to pick it up. "Funny time fer Santy to be callin'
'round. Wonder if he thinks it's next Christmas."

"Be careful, Anderson; mebby it's an infernal machine!" cried his wife.

"Well, it's loaded, 'y ginger," he grunted as straightened up in the
face of the gale. "Shut the door, Eva! Cain't you see it's snowin'?"

"I'll bet it was Joe Ramsey leavin' a sack o' hickor' nuts fer us," she
said eagerly, slamming the door.

"You better bolt the door. He might change his mind an' come back fer
'em," observed her husband. "It don't feel like hickor' nuts. Why, Eva,
it's a baskit--a reg'lar clothes baskit. What in thunder do--"

"Let's get a light out by the kitchen fire. It's too cold in here."

Together they sped to the kitchen with the mysterious offering from the
blizzard. There was a fire in the stove, which Anderson replenished,
while Eva began to remove the blankets and packing from the basket,
which she had placed on the hearth. Anderson looked on eagerly.

"Lord!" fell from the lips of both as the contents of the basket were
exposed to their gaze.

A baby, alive and warm, lay packed in the blankets, sound asleep and
happy. For an interminable length of time the Crows, _en dishabille_,
stood and gazed open-mouthed and awed at the little stranger. Ten
minutes later, after the ejaculations and surmises, after the tears and
expletives, after the whole house had been aroused, Anderson Crow was
plunging amiably but aimlessly through the snowstorm in search of the
heartless wretch who had deposited the infant on his doorstep. His top
boots scuttled up and down the street, through yards and barn lots for
an hour, but despite the fact that he carried his dark lantern and
trailed like an Indian bloodhound, he found no trace of the wanton
visitor. In the meantime, Mrs. Crow, assisted by the entire family, had
stowed the infant, a six-weeks-old girl, into a warm bed, ministering to
the best of her ability to its meagre but vociferous wants. There was no
more sleep in the Crow establishment that night. The head of the house
roused a half dozen neighbours from their beds to tell them of the
astounding occurrence, with the perfectly natural result that one and
all hurried over to see the baby and to hear the particulars.

Early next morning Tinkletown wagged with an excitement so violent that
it threatened to end in a municipal convulsion. Anderson Crow's home was
besieged. The snow in his front yard was packed to an icy consistency by
the myriad of footprints that fell upon it; the interior of the house
was "tracked" with mud and slush and three window panes were broken by
the noses of curious but unwelcome spectators. Altogether, it was a
sensation unequalled in the history of the village. Through it all the
baby blinked and wept and cooed in perfect peace, guarded by Mrs. Crow
and the faithful progeny who had been left by the stork, and not by a
mysterious stranger.

The missionary societies wanted to do something heroic, but Mrs. Crow
headed them off; the sewing circle got ready to take charge of affairs,
but Mrs. Crow punctured the project; figuratively, the churches ached
for a chance to handle the infant, but Mrs. Crow stood between. And all
Tinkletown called upon Anderson Crow to solve the mystery before it was
a day older.

"It's purty hard to solve a mystery that's got six weeks' start o' me,"
said Anderson despairingly, "but I'll try, you bet. The doggone thing's
got a parent or two somewhere in the universe, an' I'll locate 'em er
explode somethin'. I've got a private opinion about it myself."

Whatever this private opinion might have been, it was not divulged.
Possibly something in connection with it might have accounted for the
temporary annoyance felt by nearly every respectable woman in
Tinkletown. The marshal eyed each and every one of them, irrespective of
position, condition or age, with a gleam so accusing that the Godliest
of them flushed and then turned cold. So knowing were these equitable
looks that before night every woman in the village was constrained to
believe the worst of her neighbour, and almost as ready to look with
suspicion upon herself.

One thing was certain--business was at a standstill in Tinkletown. The
old men forgot their chess and checker games at the corner store; young
men neglected their love affairs; women forgot to talk about each other;
children froze their ears rather than miss any of the talk that went
about the wintry streets; everybody was asking the question, "Whose baby
is it?"

But the greatest sensation of all came late in the day when Mrs. Crow,
in going over the garments worn by the babe, found a note addressed to
Anderson Crow. It was stitched to the baby's dress, and proved beyond
question that the strange visitor of the night before had selected not
only the house, but the individual. The note was to the point. It said:

     "February 18, 1883.

     "ANDERSON CROW: To your good and merciful care an unhappy creature
     consigns this helpless though well-beloved babe. All the world
     knows you to be a tender, loving, unselfish man and father. The
     writer humbly, prayerfully implores you to care for this babe as
     you would for one of your own. It is best that her origin be kept a
     secret. Care for her, cherish her as your own, and at the end of
     each year the sum of a thousand dollars will be paid to you as long
     as she lives in your household as a member thereof. Do not seek to
     find her parents. It would be a fool's errand. May God bless you
     and yours, and may God care for and protect Rosalie--the name she
     shall bear."

Obviously, there was no signature and absolutely no clew to the identity
of the writer. Two telegraph line repairers who had been working near
Crow's house during the night, repairing damage done by the blizzard,
gave out the news that they had seen a cloaked and mysterious-looking
woman standing near the Methodist Church just before midnight, evidently
disregarding the rage of the storm. The sight was so unusual that the
men paused and gazed at her for several minutes. One of them was about
to approach her when she turned and fled down the side street near by.

"Was she carryin' a big bundle?" asked Anderson Crow.

The men replied in the negative.

"Then she couldn't have been the party wanted. The one we're after
certainly had a big bundle."

"But, Mr. Crow, isn't it possible that these men saw her after she left
the basket at--" began the Presbyterian minister.

"That ain't the way I deduce it," observed the town detective tartly.
"In the first place, she wouldn't 'a' been standin' 'round like that if
the job was over, would she? Wouldn't she 'a' been streakin' out fer
home? 'Course she would."

"She may have paused near the church to see whether you took the child
in," persisted the divine.

"But she couldn't have saw my porch from the back end of the church."

"Nobody said she was standing back of the church," said the lineman.

"What's that? You don't mean it?" cried Anderson, pulling out of a
difficulty bravely. "That makes all the difference in the world. Why
didn't you say she was in front of the church? Cain't you see we've
wasted time here jest because you didn't have sense 'nough to--"

"Anybody ought to know it 'thout being told, you old Rube," growled the
lineman, who was from Boggs City.

"Here, now, sir, that will do you! I won't 'low no man to--"

"Anderson, be quiet!" cautioned Mrs. Crow. "You'll wake the baby!" This
started a new train of thought in Anderson's perplexed mind.

"Mebby she was waitin' there while some one--her husband, fer
instance--was leavin' the baskit," volunteered Isaac Porter humbly.

"Don't bother me, Ike; I'm thinkin' of somethin' else," muttered
Anderson. "Husband nothin'! Do you s'pose she'd 'a' trusted that baby
with a fool husband on a terrible night like that? Ladies and gentlemen,
this here baby was left by a _female_ resident of this very town." His
hearers gasped and looked at him wide-eyed. "If she has a husband, he
don't know he's the father of this here baby. Don't you see that a woman
couldn't 'a' carried a heavy baskit any great distance? She couldn't 'a'
packed it from Boggs City er New York er Baltimore, could she? She
wouldn't 'a' been strong enough. No, siree; she didn't have far to come,
folks. An' she was a woman, 'cause ain't all typewritin' done by women?
You don't hear of men typewriters, do you? People wouldn't have 'em.
Now, the thing fer me to do first is to make a house-to-house search to
see if I c'n locate a typewritin' machine anywheres. Get out of the way,
Toby. Doggone you boys, anyhow, cain't you see I want ter get started on
this job?"

"Say, Anderson," said Harry Squires, the reporter, "I'd like to ask if
there is any one in Tinkletown, male or female, who can afford to pay
you a thousand dollars a year for taking care of that kid?"

"What's that?" slowly oozed from Anderson's lips.

"You heard what I said. Say, don't you know you can bring up a kid in
this town for eleven or twelve dollars a year?"

"You don't know what you're talkin' about," burst from Anderson's
indignant lips, but he found instant excuse to retire from the circle of
speculators. A few minutes later he and his wife were surreptitiously
re-reading the note, both filled with the fear that it said $10.00
instead of $1000.




CHAPTER VI

Reflection and Deduction


"By gum, it does say a thousand," cried Anderson, mightily relieved.
"Harry Squires is a fool. He said jest now that it could be did fer
eleven or twelve dollars. Don't you suppose, Eva, that the mother of
this here child knows what it costs to bring 'em up? Of course she does.
When I find her I'll prove it by her own lips that she knows. But don't
bother me any more, Eva; I got to git out an' track her down. This is
the greatest job I've had in years."

"See here, Anderson," said his wife thoughtfully and somewhat
stealthily, "let's go slow about this thing. What do you want to find
her for?"

"Why--why, doggone it, Eva, what air you talkin' about?" began he in
amazement.

"Well, it's just this way: I don't think we can earn a thousand dollars
a year easier than takin' care of this child. Don't you see? Suppose we
keep her fer twenty years. That means twenty thousand dollars, don't it?
It beats a pension all to pieces."

"Well, by ginger!" gasped Anderson, vaguely comprehending. "Fifty years
would mean fifty thousand dollars, wouldn't it. Gee whiz, Eva!"

"I don't imagine we can keep her that long."

"No," reflectively; "the chances are she'd want ter git married inside
of that time. They always--

"'Tain't that, Anderson. You an' me'd have to live to be more'n a
hundred years old."

"That's so. We ain't spring chickens, are we, deary?"

She put her hard, bony hand in his and there was a suspicion of moisture
in the kindly old eyes.

"I love to hear you call me 'deary,' Anderson. We never get too old for
that."

He coughed and then patted her hand rather confusedly. Anderson had long
since forgotten the meaning of sentiment, but he was surprised to find
that he had not forgotten how to love his wife.

"Shucks!" he muttered bravely. "We'll be kissin' like a couple of young
jay birds first thing we know. Doggone if it ain't funny how a baby,
even if it is some one else's, kinder makes a feller foolisher'n he
intends to be." Hand in hand they watched the sleeping innocent for
several minutes. Finally the detective shook himself and spoke:

"Well, Eva, I got to make a bluff at findin' out whose baby it is, ain't
I? My reputation's at stake. I jest have to investigate."

"I don't see that any harm can come from that, Anderson," she replied,
and neither appreciated the sarcasm unintentionally involved.

"I won't waste another minute," he announced promptly. "I will stick to
my theory that the parents live in Tinkletown."

"Fiddlesticks!" snorted Mrs. Crow disgustedly, and then left him to
cultivate the choleric anger her exclamation had inspired.

"Doggone, I wish I hadn't patted her hand," he lamented. "She didn't
deserve it. Consarn it, a woman's always doin' something to spoil
things."

And so he fared forth with his badges and stars, bent on duty, but not
accomplishment. All the town soon knew that he was following a clew, but
all the town was at sea concerning its character, origin, and
plausibility. A dozen persons saw him stop young Mrs. Perkins in front
of Lamson's store, and the same spectators saw his feathers droop as she
let loose her wrath upon his head and went away with her nose in the air
and her cheeks far more scarlet than when Boreas kissed them, and all in
response to a single remark volunteered by the faithful detective. He
entered Lamson's store a moment later, singularly abashed and red in the
face.

"Doggone," he observed, seeing that an explanation was expected, "she
might 'a' knowed I was only foolin'."

A few minutes later he had Alf Reesling, the town sot, in a far corner
of the store talking to him in a most peremptory fashion. It may be well
to mention that Alf had so far forgotten himself as to laugh at the
marshal's temporary discomfiture at the hands of Mrs. Perkins.

"Alf, have you been havin' another baby up to your house without lettin'
me know?" demanded Anderson firmly.

"Anderson," replied Alf, maudlin tears starting in his eyes, "it's not
kind of you to rake up my feelin's like this. You know I been a widower
fer three years."

"I want you to understand one thing, Alf Reesling. A detective never
_knows_ anything till he proves it. Let me warn you, sir, you are under
suspicion. An' now, let me tell you one thing more. Doggone your ornery
hide, don't you ever laugh ag'in like you did jest now er I'll--"

Just then the door flew open with a bang and Edna Crow, Anderson's
eldest, almost flopped into the store, her cap in her hand, eyes
starting from her head. She had run at top speed all the way from home.

"Pop," she gasped. "Ma says fer you to hurry home! She says fer you to
_run_!"

Anderson covered the distance between Lamson's store and his own home in
record time. Indeed, Edna, flying as fast as her slim legs could
twinkle, barely beat her father to the front porch. It was quite clear
to Mr. Crow that something unusual had happened or Mrs. Crow would not
have summoned him so peremptorily.

She was in the hallway downstairs awaiting his arrival, visibly
agitated. Before uttering a word she dragged him into the little
sitting-room and closed the door. They were alone.

"Is it dead?" he panted.

"No, but what do you think, Anderson?" she questioned excitedly.

"I ain't had time to think. You don't mean to say it has begun to talk
an' c'n tell who it is," he faltered.

"Heavens no--an' it only six weeks old."

"Well, then, what in thunder _has_ happened?"

"A _detective_ has been here."

"Good gosh!"

"Yes, a _real_ detective. He's out there in the kitchen gettin' his feet
warm by the bake-oven. He says he's lookin' for a six-weeks-old baby.
Anderson, we're goin' to lose that twenty thousand."

"Don't cry, Eva; mebby we c'n find another baby some day. Has he seen
the--the--it?" Anderson was holding to the stair-post for support.

"Not yet, but he says he understands we've got one here that ain't been
_tagged_--that's what he said--'tagged.' What does he mean by that?"

"Why--why, don't you see? Just as soon as he tags it, it's _it_.
Doggone, I wonder if it would make any legal difference if I tagged it
first."

"He's a queer-lookin' feller, Anderson. Says he's in disguise, and he
certainly looks like a regular scamp."

"I'll take a look at him an' ast fer his badge." Marshal Crow paraded
boldly into the kitchen, where the strange man was regaling the younger
Crows with conversation the while he partook comfortably of pie and
other things more substantial.

"Are you Mr. Crow?" he asked nonchalantly, as Anderson appeared before
him.

"I am. Who are you?"

"I am Hawkshaw, the detective," responded the man, his mouth full of
blackberry pie.

"Gee whiz!" gasped Anderson. "Eva, it's the celebrated Hawkshaw."

"Right you are, sir. I'm after the kid."

"You'll have to identify it," something inspired Anderson to say.

"Sure. That's easy. It's the one that was left on your doorstep last
night," said the man glibly.

"Well, I guess you're right," began Anderson disconsolately.

"Boy or girl?" demanded Mrs. Crow, shrewdly and very quickly. She had
been inspecting the man more closely than before, and woman's intuition
was telling her a truth that Anderson overlooked. Mr. Hawkshaw was not
only very seedy, but very drunk.

"Madam," he responded loftily, "it is nothing but a mere child."

"I'll give you jest one minute to get out of this house," said Mrs. Crow
sharply, to Anderson's consternation. "If you're not gone, I'll douse
you with this kettle of scalding water. Open the back door, Edna. He
sha'n't take his dirty self through my parlour again. _Open that door,
Edna!_"

Edna, half paralysed with astonishment, opened the kitchen door just in
time. Mr. Hawkshaw was not so drunk but he could recognise disaster when
it hovered near. As she lifted the steaming kettle from the stove he
made a flying leap for the door. The rush of air that followed him as he
shot through the aperture almost swept Edna from her feet. In ten
seconds the tattered Hawkshaw was scrambling over the garden fence and
making lively if inaccurate tracks through last year's cabbage patch.




CHAPTER VII

The Mysterious Visitor


The entire Crow family watched him in stupefaction until he disappeared
down the lane that led to Hapgood's grove. It was then, and not until
then, that Anderson Crow took a breath.

"Good Lord, Eva, what do you mean?" he gasped.

"Mean?" she almost shrieked. "Anderson Crow, didn't you recognise that
feller? He ain't no more detective than you er me. He's the self-same
tramp that you put in the calaboose last week, and the week before, too.
I thought I'd seen his ugly face before. He's--"

"Great jumpin' geeswax!" roared the town marshal. "I recollect him now.
He's the one that said he'd been exposed to smallpox an' wanted to be
kept where it was warm all winter. Well, I'll be--I'll be--"

"Don't say it, pa. He said it fer you when he clumb over that barb-wire
fence out there," cried Edna gleefully.

Several days of anxiety and energy followed this interesting episode. In
that time two tramps attempted to obtain food and shelter at Crow's
home, one on the plea that he was the father of the unfortunate child,
the other as an officer for the Foundlings' Home at Boggs City. Three
babies were left on the doorstep--two in one night--their fond mothers
confessing fessing by letters that they appreciated Anderson's
well-known charitable inclinations and implored him to care for their
offspring as if they were his own. The harassed marshal experienced some
difficulty in forcing the mothers to take back their children.

In each instance he was reviled by the estimable ladies, all of whom
accused him of being utterly heartless. Mrs. Crow came to his rescue and
told the disappointed mothers that the scalding water was ready for
application if they did not take their baskets of babies away on short
order. It may be well for the reputation of Tinkletown to mention that
one of the donors was Mrs. Raspus, a negro washerwoman who did work for
the "dagoes" engaged in building the railroad hard by; another was the
wife of Antonio Galli, a member of the grading gang, and the third was
Mrs. Pool, the widow of a fisherman who had recently drowned himself in
drink.

It is quite possible that Anderson might have had the three infants on
his hands permanently had not the mothers been so eager to know their
fate. They appeared in person early the next morning to see if the
babies had frozen to death on the doorstep. Mrs. Pool even went so far
as to fetch some extra baby clothes which she had neglected to drop with
her male. Mrs. Raspus came for her basket, claiming it was the only one
she had in which to "tote" the washing for the men.

After these annoying but enlivening incidents Anderson was permitted to
recover from his daze and to throw off symptoms of nervous prostration.
Tinkletown resumed its tranquil attitude and the checker games began to
thrive once more. Little Rosalie was a week older than when she came,
but it was five weeks before anything happened to disturb the even tenor
of the foster-father's way. He had worked diligently in the effort to
discover the parents of the baby, but without result. Two or three
exasperated husbands in Tinkletown had threatened to blow his brains out
if he persisted in questioning their wives in his insinuating manner,
and one of the kitchen girls at the village inn threw a dishpan at him
on the occasion of his third visit of inquiry. A colored woman in the
employ of the Baptist minister denied that Rosalie was her child, but
when he insisted, agreed with fine sarcasm to "go over an' have a look
at it," after his assurance that it was perfectly white.

"Eva, I've investigated the case thoroughly," he said at last, "an'
there is no solution to the mystery. The only thing I c'n deduce is that
the child is here an' we'll have to take keer of her. Now, I wonder if
that woman really meant it when she said we'd have a thousand dollars
at the end of each year. Doggone, I wish the year was up, jest to see."

"We'll have to wait, Anderson, that's all," said Mrs. Crow. "I love the
baby so it can't matter much. I'm glad you're through investigatin'.
It's been most tryin' to me. Half the women in town don't speak to me."

It was at the end of Rosalie's fifth week as a member of the family that
something happened. Late one night when Anderson opened the front door
to put out the cat a heavily veiled woman mounted the steps and accosted
him. In some trepidation he drew back and would have closed the door but
for her eager remonstrance.

"I must see you, Mr. Crow," she cried in a low, agitated voice.

"Who are you?" he demanded. She was dressed entirely in black.

"I came to see you about the baby."

"That won't do, madam. There's been three tramps here to hornswoggle us
an' I--"

"I _must_ see her, Mr. Crow," pleaded the stranger, and he was struck by
the richness of her voice.

"Mighty queer, it seems to me," he muttered hesitatingly. "Are you any
kin to it?"

"I am very much interested."

"By giminy, I believe you're the one who left her here," cried the
detective. "Are you a typewriter?"

"I'll answer your questions if you'll allow me to step inside. It is
very cold out here."

Anderson Crow stood aside and the tall, black figure entered the hall.
He led her to the warm sitting-room and gave her a chair before the
"base-burner."

"Here, Mr. Crow, is an envelope containing two hundred and fifty
dollars. That proves my good faith. I cannot tell you who I am nor what
relation I bear to the baby. I am quite fully aware that you will not
undertake to detain me, for it is not an easy matter to earn a thousand
dollars a year in this part of the world. I am going abroad next week
and do not expect to return for a long, long time. Try as I would, I
could not go without seeing the child. I will not keep you out of bed
ten minutes, and you and your wife may be present while I hold Rosalie
in my arms. I know that she is in good hands, and I have no intention of
taking her away. Please call Mrs. Crow."

Anderson was too amazed to act at once. He began to flounder
interrogatively, but the visitor abruptly checked him.

"You are wasting time, Mr. Crow, in attempting to question my authority
or identity. No one need know that I have made this visit. You are
perfectly secure in the promise to have a thousand dollars a year; why
should you hesitate? As long as she lives with you the money is yours. I
am advancing the amount you now hold in order that her immediate wants
may be provided for. You are not required to keep an account of the
money paid to you. There are means of ascertaining at once whether she
is being well cared for and educated by you, and if it becomes apparent
that you are not doing your duty, she shall be removed from your
custody. From time to time you may expect written instructions
from--from one who loves her."

"I jest want to ast if you live in Tinkletown?" Anderson managed to say.

"I do not," she replied emphatically.

"Well, then, lift your veil. If you don't live here I sha'n't know you."

"I prefer to keep my face covered, Mr. Crow; believe me and trust me.
Please let me see her." The plea was so earnest that Anderson's heart
gave a great thump of understanding.

"By ginger, you are her mother!" he gasped. Mrs. Crow came in at this
juncture, and she was much quicker at grasping the situation than her
husband. It was in her mind to openly denounce the woman for her
heartlessness, but her natural thriftiness interposed. She would do
nothing that might remove the golden spoon from the family mouth.

The trio stole upstairs and into the warm bedchamber. There, with
Anderson Crow and his wife looking on from a remote corner of the room,
the tall woman in black knelt beside the crib that had housed a
generation of Crows. The sleeping Rosalie did not know of the soft
kisses that swept her little cheek. She did not feel the tears that fell
when the visitor lifted her veil, nor did she hear the whisperings that
rose to the woman's lips.

"That is all," murmured the mysterious stranger at last, dropping her
veil as she arose. She staggered as she started for the door, but
recovered herself instantly. Without a word she left the room, the
Crows following her down the stairs in silence. At the bottom she
paused, and then extended her hands to the old couple. Her voice
faltered as she spoke.

"Let me clasp your hands and let me tell you that my love and my prayers
are forever for you and for that little one up there. Thank you. I know
you will be good to her. She is well born. Her blood is as good as the
best. Above all things, Mrs. Crow, she is not illegitimate. You may
easily suspect that her parents are wealthy or they could not pay so
well for her care. Some day the mystery surrounding her will be cleared.
It may not be for many years. I can safely say that she will be left in
your care for twenty years at least. Some day you will know why it is
that Rosalie is not supposed to exist. God bless you."

She was gone before they could utter a word. They watched her walk
swiftly into the darkness; a few minutes later the sound of carriage
wheels suddenly broke upon the air. Anderson Crow and his wife stood
over the "base-burner," and there were tears in their thoughtful eyes.

"She said twenty years, Eva. Let's see, this is 1883. What would that
make it?"

"About 1903 or 1904, Anderson."

"Well, I guess we c'n wait if other people can," mused he. Then they
went slowly upstairs and to bed.




CHAPTER VIII

Some Years Go By


Tinkletown as a unit supported Anderson in his application for
guardianship papers. They were filed immediately after the secret visit
of the mysterious woman; the Circuit Court at Boggs City, after hearing
the evidence, at once entered the appointment of Mr. Crow. When the
court asked in mild surprise why he did not adopt the child, Anderson
and Eva looked at each other sheepishly and were silent for a full
minute. Then Anderson spoke up a bit huskily:

"Well, you see, judge, her name would have to be Crow, an' while it's a
good name an' an honoured one, it don't jest seem to fit the young 'un.
She 'pears to be more of a canary than a crow, figuratively speakin',
and Eva an' me jest decided we'd give her a different sort of a last
name if we could find one. Seems to me that Rosie Canary would be a good
one, but Eva an' the childern are ag'in me. They've decided to call her
Rosalie Gray, an' I guess that about settles it. If you don't mind, I
reckon that name c'n go in the records. Besides, you must recollect that
she's liable to have a lot of property some time, an' it seems more fit
fer me to be guardian than foster-father if that time ever comes. It'll
be easier to say good-bye if she keers to leave us."

That same day Anderson deposited two hundred and fifty dollars to his
credit in the First National Bank, saying to his wife as he walked away
from the teller's window, "I guess Rosalie cain't starve till the bank
busts, an' maybe not then."

Of course Tinkletown knew that a sum of money had been paid to Anderson,
but no one knew that it had been handed to him in person by an
interested party. Had Anderson and his wife even whispered that such a
visit had occurred, the town would have gone into a convulsion of wrath;
the marshal's pedestal would have been jerked out from under him without
compunction or mercy. Eva cautioned him to be more than silent on the
subject for the child's sake as well as for their own, and Anderson saw
wisdom in her counselling. He even lagged in his avowed intention to
unravel the mystery or die in the attempt. A sharp reminder in the shape
of an item in the _Banner_ restored his energies, and he again took up
the case with a vigour that startled even himself. Anything in the shape
of vigour startled his wife.

Harry Squires, the reporter, who poked more or less fun at Anderson from
time to time because he had the "power of the press behind him," some
weeks later wrote the following item about the "baby mystery," as he
called it, in large type:

     "There is no news in regard to the child found upon the doorstep of
     our esteemed fellow-citizen Anderson Crow, last February. The item
     concerning its discovery first appeared in the columns of the
     _Banner_, as will be remembered by our many readers. Detective
     Crow promised developments some time ago, but they have not showed
     up. It is rumoured that he has a new clew, but it cannot be
     substantiated. The general impression is that he does not know
     whether it is a boy or girl. We advise Mr. Crow to go slow. He
     should not forget the time when he arrested Mr. John Barnes, two
     years ago, for the murder of Mr. Grover, and afterward found that
     the young gent was merely eloping with Judge Brewster's daughter,
     which was no crime. We saw the girl. Those of our readers who were
     alive at the time doubtless recall the excitement of that man-hunt
     two years ago. Mr. Barnes, as innocent as a child unborn, came to
     our little city engaged in the innocent pastime of getting married.
     At the same time it was reported that a murder had been committed
     in this county. Mr. Crow had his suspicions aroused and pursued Mr.
     Barnes down the river and arrested him. It was a fine piece of
     detective work. But, unfortunately for Mr. Crow, the real murderer
     had been caught in the meantime. Mr. Barnes was guilty only of
     stealing judge Brewster's daughter and getting married to her. The
     last heard of them they were happy in New York. They even forgave
     Mr. Crow, it is reported. It is to be hoped that our clever
     detective will soon jump down upon the heartless parents of this
     innocent child, but it is also to be hoped that he think at least
     four times before he leaps."

To say that the foregoing editorial disturbed the evenness of Mr. Crow's
temper would be saying nothing at all. In the privacy of his barn lot
Anderson did a war dance that shamed Tecumseh. He threatened to
annihilate Harry Squires "from head to foot," for publishing the base
slander.

"Doggone his hide," roared poor Anderson, "fer two cents I'd tell all I
know about him bein' tight up at Boggs City three years ago. He couldn't
walk half an inch that time without staggerin'. Anyhow, I wouldn't have
chased Mr. Barnes that time if it hadn't been fer Harry Squires. He
egged me on, doggone his hide. If he didn't have that big typesetter
from Albany over at the _Banner_ office to back him up I'd go over an'
bust his snoot fer him. After all the items I've give him, too. That's
all the thanks you git fer gittin' up news fer them blamed reporters.
But I'll show him! I wonder what he'd think if I traced that baby right
up to his own--_What's_ that, Eva? Well, now, you don't know anything
about it neither, so keep your mouth shet. Harry Squires is a purty sly
cuss. Mebby it's his'n. You ain't supposed to know. You jest let me do
my own deducin'. I don't want no blamed woman tellin' me who to shadder.
An' you, too, Edner; get out of the way, consarn ye! The next thing
_you'll_ be tellin' me what to do--an' me your father, too!"

And that is why Anderson Crow resumed his search for the parents of
Rosalie Gray. Not that he hoped or expected to find them, but to offset
the pernicious influence of Harry's "item." For many days he followed
the most highly impossible clews, some of them intractable, to supply a
rather unusual word of description. In other words, they reacted with a
vigour that often found him unprepared but serene. Consequences bothered
Anderson but little in those days of despised activity.

It is not necessary to dwell upon the incidents of the ensuing years,
which saw Rosalie crawl from babyhood to childhood and then stride
proudly through the teens with a springiness that boded ill for Father
Time. Regularly each succeeding February there came to Anderson Crow a
package of twenty dollar bills amounting to one thousand dollars, the
mails being inscrutable. The Crow family prospered correspondingly, but
there was a liberal frugality behind it all that meant well for Rosalie
when the time came for an accounting. Anderson and Eva "laid by" a
goodly portion of the money for the child, whom they loved as one of
their own flesh and blood. The district school lessons were followed
later on by a boarding-school education down State, and then came the
finishing touches at Miss Brown's in New York.

Rosalie grew into a rare flower, as dainty as the rose, as piquant as
the daisy. The unmistakable mark of the high bred glowed in her face,
the fine traces of blue blood graced her every movement, her every tone
and look. At the time that she, as well as every one else in Tinkletown,
for that matter, was twenty years older than when she first came to
Anderson's home, we find her the queen of the village, its one rich
human possession, its one truly sophisticated inhabitant. Anderson Crow
and his wife were so proud of her that they forgot their duty to their
own offspring; but if the Crow children resented this it was not
exhibited in the expressions of love and admiration for their
foster-sister. Edna Crow, the eldest of the girls--Anderson called her
"Edner"--was Rosalie's most devoted slave, while Roscoe, the
twelve-year-old boy, who comprised the rear rank of Anderson's little
army, knelt so constantly at her shrine that he fell far behind in his
studies, and stuck to the third reader for two years.

Anderson had not been idle in all these years. He was fast approaching
his seventieth anniversary, but he was not a day older in spirit than
when we first made his acquaintance. True, his hair was thinner and
whiter, and his whiskers straggled a little more carelessly than in
other days, but he was as young and active as a youth of twenty. Hard
times did not worry him, nor did domestic troubles. Mrs. Crow often
admitted that she tried her best to worry him, but it was like "pouring
water on a duck's back." He went blissfully on his way, earning
encomiums for himself and honours for Tinkletown. There was no grave
crime committed in the land that he did not have a well-defined scheme
for apprehending the perpetrators. His "deductions" at Lamson's store
never failed to draw out and hold large audiences, and no one disputed
his theories in public. The fact that he was responsible for the arrest
of various hog, horse, and chicken thieves from time to time, and for
the continuous seizure of the two town drunkards, Tom Folly and Alf
Reesling, kept his reputation untarnished, despite the numerous errors
of commission and omission that crept in between.

That Rosalie's mysterious friends--or enemies, it might have been--kept
close and accurate watch over her was manifested from time to time.
Once, when Anderson was very ill with typhoid fever, the package of
bills was accompanied by an unsigned, typewritten letter. The writer
announced that Mr. Crow's state of health was causing some anxiety on
Rosalie's account--the child was then six years old--and it was hoped
that nothing serious would result. Another time the strange writer, in a
letter from Paris, instructed Mr. Crow to send Rosalie to a certain
boarding school and to see that she had French, German, and music from
competent instructors. Again, just before the girl went to New York for
her two years' stay in Miss Brown's school, there came a package
containing $2500 for her own personal use. Rosalie often spoke to
Anderson of this mysterious sender as the "fairy godmother"; but the old
marshal had a deeper and more significant opinion.

Perhaps the most anxious period in the life of Anderson Crow came when
Rosalie was about ten years old. A new sheriff had been elected in
Bramble County, and he posed as a reformer. His sister taught school in
Tinkletown, and Rosalie was her favourite. She took an interest in the
child that was almost the undoing of Mr. Crow's prosperity. Imagining
that she was befriending the girl, the teacher appealed to her brother,
the sheriff, insisting that he do what he could to solve the mystery of
her birth. The sheriff saw a chance to distinguish himself. He enlisted
the help of an aggressive prosecuting attorney, also new, and set about
to investigate the case.

The two officers of the law descended upon Tinkletown one day and began
to ask peremptory questions. They went about it in such a high-handed,
lordly manner that Anderson took alarm and his heart sank like lead. He
saw in his mind's eye the utter collapse of all his hopes, the dashing
away of his cup of leisure and the upsetting of the "fairy godmother's"
plans. Pulling his wits together, he set about to frustrate the attack
of the meddlers. Whether it was his shrewdness in placing obstacles in
their way or whether he coerced the denizens into blocking the sheriff's
investigation does not matter. It is only necessary to say that the
officious gentleman from Boggs City finally gave up the quest in disgust
and retired into the oblivion usual to county officials who try to be
progressive. It was many weeks, however, before Anderson slept soundly.
He was once more happy in the consciousness that Rosalie had been saved
from disaster and that he had done his duty by her.

"I'd like to know how them doggone jays from Boggs City expected to find
out anything about that child when I hain't been able to," growled Mr.
Crow in Lamson's store one night. "If they'll jest keep their blamed
noses out of this affair I'll find out who her parents are some day. It
takes time to trace down things like this. I guess I know what I'm
doin', don't I, boys?"

"That's what you do, Anderson," said Mr. Lamson, as Anderson reached
over and took a handful of licorice drops from the jar on the counter.




CHAPTER IX

The Village Queen


The spring of 1903 brought Rosalie back to Tinkletown after her second
and last year with Miss Brown in New York City. The sun seemed brighter,
the birds sang more blithely, the flowers took on a new fragrance and
the village spruced up as if Sunday was the only day in the week. The
young men of the town trembled when she passed them by, and not a few of
them grew thin and haggard for want of food and sleep, having lost both
appetite and repose through a relapse in love. Her smile was the same as
of yore, her cheery greetings the same, and yet the village swains stood
in awe of this fine young aristocrat for days and days. Gradually it
dawned upon them that she was human, after all, despite her New York
training, and they slowly resumed the old-time manner of courting, which
was with the eyes exclusively.

A few of the more venturesome--but not the more ardent--asked her to go
walking, driving, or to the church "sociables," and there was a rivalry
in town which threatened to upset commerce. There was no theatre in
Tinkletown, but they delighted in her descriptions of the gorgeous
play-houses in New York. The town hall seemed smaller than ever to them.
The younger merchants and their clerks neglected business with charming
impartiality, and trade was going to "rack and ruin" until Rosalie
declined to marry George Rawlins, the minister's son. He was looked upon
as the favoured one; but she refused him in such a decisive manner that
all others lost hope and courage. It is on record that the day after
George's _congé_ Tinkletown indulged in a complete business somersault.
Never before had there been such strict attention to customers;
merchants and clerks alike settled down to the inevitable and tried to
banish Rosalie's face from the cost tags and trading stamps of their
dull, mercantile cloister. Even Tony Brink, the blacksmith's 'prentice,
fell into the habits of industry, but with an absent-mindedness that got
him kicked through a partition in the smithy when he attempted to shoe
the fetlock of Mr. Martin's colt instead of its hoof.

The Crow family took on a new dignity. Anderson gave fifty dollars to
the Foreign Missionary Society of the Presbyterian Church, claiming that
a foreign education had done so much for his ward; and Mrs. Crow
succeeded in holding two big afternoon teas before Rosalie could apply
the check rein.

One night Anderson sat up until nearly ten o'clock--an unheard-of
proceeding for him. Rosalie, with the elder Crow girls, Edna and Susie,
had gone to protracted meeting with a party of young men and women. The
younger boys and girls were in bed, and Mrs. Crow was yawning
prodigiously. She never retired until Anderson was ready to do likewise.
Suddenly it dawned upon her that he was unusually quiet and
preoccupied. They were sitting on the moonlit porch.

"What's the matter, Anderson? Ain't you well?" she asked at last.

"No; I'm just thinkin'," he responded, rather dismally. "Doggone, I
cain't get it out of my head, Eva."

"Can't get what out?"

"About Rosalie."

"Well, what about her?"

"That's jest like a woman--always fergittin' the most important things
in the world. Don't you know that the twenty years is up?"

"Of course I know it, but 'tain't worryin' me any. She's still here,
ain't she? Nobody has come to take her away. The thousand dollars came
all right last February, didn't it? Well, what's the use worryin'?"

"Mebbe you're right, but I'm skeered to death fer fear some one will
turn up an' claim her, er that a big estate will be settled, er
somethin' awful like that. I don't mind the money, Eva; I jest hate to
think of losin' her, now that she's such a credit to us. Besides, I'm up
a stump about next year."

"Well, what happens then?"

"Derned if I know. That's what's worryin' me."

"I don't see why you--"

"Certainly you don't. You never do. I've got to do all the thinkin' fer
this fambly. Next year she's twenty-one years old an' her own boss,
ain't she? I ain't her guardeen after that, am I? What happens then, I'd
like to know."

"You jest have to settle with the court, pay over to her what belongs to
her and keep the thousand every spring jest the same. Her people,
whoever they be, are payin' you fer keepin' her an' not her fer stayin'
here. 'Tain't likely she'll want to leave a good home like this 'un, is
it? Don't worry till the time comes, Anderson."

"That's jest the point. She's lived in New York an' she's got used to
it. She's got fine idees; even her clothes seem to fit different. Now,
do you s'pose that fine-lookin' girl with all her New York trimmin's 's
goin' to hang 'round a fool little town like this? Not much! She's goin'
to dig out o' here as soon's she gits a chance; an' she's goin' to live
right where her heart tells her she belongs--in the metropolees of New
York. She don't belong in no jim-crow town like this. Doggone, Eva, I
hate to see 'er go!"

There was such a wail of bitterness in the old constable's remark that
Mrs. Crow felt the tears start to her own eyes. It was the girl they
both wanted, after all--not the money. Rosalie, coming home with her
party some time afterward, found the old couple still seated on the
porch. The young people could not conceal their surprise.

"Counting the stars, pop?" asked Edna Crow.

"He's waiting for the eclipse," bawled noisy Ed Higgins, the grocer's
clerk. "It's due next winter. H'are you, Anderson?"

"How's that?" was Anderson's rebuke.

"I mean Mr. Crow," corrected Ed, with a nervous glance at Rosalie, who
had been his companion for the evening.

"Oh, I'm jest so-so," remarked Anderson, mollified. "How was the party?"

"It wasn't a party, Daddy Crow," laughed Rosalie, seating herself in
front of him on the porch rail. "It was an experience meeting. Alf
Reesling has reformed again. He told us all about his last attack of
delirium tremens."

"You don't say so! Well, sir, I never thought Alf could find the time to
reform ag'in. He's too busy gittin' tight," mused Anderson. "But I guess
reformin' c'n git to be as much a habit as anythin' else."

"I think he was a little woozy to-night," ventured 'Rast Little.

"A little what?"

"Drunk," explained 'Rast, without wasting words. 'Rast had acquired the
synonym at the business men's carnival in Boggs City the preceding fall.
Sometimes he substituted the words "pie-eyed," "skeed," "lit up," etc.,
just to show his worldliness.

After the young men had departed and the Crow girls had gone upstairs
with their mother Rosalie slipped out on the porch and sat herself down
upon the knee of her disconsolate guardian.

"You are worried about something, Daddy Crow," she said gently. "Now,
speak up, sir. What is it?"

"It's time you were in bed," scolded Anderson, pulling his whiskers
nervously.

"Oh, I'm young, daddy. I don't need sleep. But you never have been up as
late as this since I've known you."

"I was up later'n this the time you had the whoopin'-cough, all right."

"What's troubling you, daddy?"

"Oh, nothin'--nothin' at all. Doggone, cain't a man set out on his own
porch 'thout--"

"Forgive me, daddy. Shall I go away and leave you?"

"Gosh a'mighty, no!" he gasped. "That's what's worryin' me--oh, you
didn't mean forever. You jest meant to-night? Geminy crickets, you did
give me a skeer!" He sank back with a great sigh of relief.

"Why, I never expect to leave you forever," she cried, caressing his
scanty hair. "You couldn't drive me away. This is home, and you've been
too good to me all these years. I may want to travel after a while, but
I'll always come back to you, Daddy Crow."

"I'm--I'm mighty glad to hear ye say that, Rosie. Ye see--ye see, me an'
your ma kinder learned to love you, an'--an--"

"Why, Daddy Crow, you silly old goose! You're almost crying!"

"What's that? Now, don't talk like that to me, you little
whipper-snapper, er you go to bed in a hurry. I never cried in my life,"
growled Anderson in a great bluster.

"Well, then, let's talk about something else--me, for instance. Do you
know, Daddy Crow, that I'm too strong to live an idle life. There is no
reason why I shouldn't have an occupation. I want to work--accomplish
something."

Anderson was silent a long time collecting his nerves. "You wouldn't
keer to be a female detective, would you?" he asked drily.




CHAPTER X

Rosalie Has Plans of Her Own


"Do be serious, daddy. I want to do something worth while. I could teach
school or--"

"Not much! You ain't cut out fer that job. Don't you know that ever'body
hates school-teachers when they're growed up? Jerusalem, how I still
hate old Rachel Kidwell! An' yet she's bin dead nigh onto thirty years.
She was my first teacher. You wasn't born to be hated by all the boys in
the district. I don't see what put the idee of work inter your head You
got 'bout eight thousand dollars in the bank an'--"

"But I insist that the money is yours, daddy. My fairy godmother paid it
to you for keeping, clothing, and educating me. It is not mine."

"You talk like I was a boardin' school instead o' bein' your guardeen.
No, siree; it's your money, an' that ends it. You git it when you're
twenty-one."

"We'll see, daddy," she replied, a stubborn light in her dark eyes. "But
I want to learn to do something worth while. If I had a million it would
be just the same."

"You'll have something to do when you git married," observed he sharply.

"Nonsense!"

"I s'pose you're goin' to say you never expect to git married. They all
say it--an' then take the first feller 'at comes along."

"I didn't take the first, or the second, or the third, or the--"

"Hold on! Gosh a'mighty, have you had that many? Well, why don't you go
into the matrimonial agent's business? That's an occupation."

"Oh, none of them was serious, daddy," she said naïvely.

"You could have all of the men in the county!" he declared proudly.
"Only," he added quickly, "it wouldn't seem jest right an' proper."

"There was a girl at Miss Brown's a year ago who had loads of money, and
yet she declared she was going to have an occupation. Nobody knew much
about her or why she left school suddenly in the middle of a term. I
liked her, for she was very nice to me when I first went there, a
stranger. Mr. Reddon--you've heard me speak of him--was devoted to her,
and I'm sure she liked him. It was only yesterday I heard from her. She
is going to teach school in this township next winter."

"An' she's got money?"

"I am sure she had it in those days. It's the strangest thing in the
world that she should be coming here to teach school in No. 5.
Congressman Ritchey secured the appointment for her, she says. The
township trustee--whatever his name is--for a long time insisted that he
must appoint a teacher from Tinkletown and not an outsider. I am glad
she is coming here because--well, daddy, because she is like the girls
I knew in the city. She has asked me to look up a boarding place for
next winter. Do you know of any one, daddy, who could let her have a
nice room?"

"I'll bet my ears you'd like to have your ma take her in right here. But
I don't see how it c'n be done, Rosie-posie. There's so derned many of
us now, an'--"

"Oh, I didn't mean that, daddy. She couldn't come here. But don't you
think Mrs. Jim Holabird would take her in for the winter?"

"P'raps. She's a widder. She might let her have Jim's room now that
there's a vacancy. You might go over an' ast her about it to-morrer.
It's a good thing she's a friend of yourn, Rosalie, because if she
wasn't I'd have to fight her app'intment."

"Why, daddy!" reproachfully.

"Well, she's a foreigner, an' I don't think it's right to give her a job
when we've got so many home products that want the place an' who look
unpopular enough to fill the bill. I'm fer home industry every time, an'
'specially as this girl don't appear to need the place. I don't see what
business Congressman Ritchey has foolin' with our school system anyhow.
He'd better be reducin' the tariff er increasin' the pensions down to
Washington."

"I quite agree with you, Daddy Crow," said Rosalie with a diplomacy that
always won for her. She knew precisely how to handle her guardian, and
that was why she won where his own daughters failed. "And now,
good-night, daddy. Go to bed and don't worry about me. You'll have me
on your hands much longer than you think or want. What time is it?"

Anderson patted her head reflectively as he solemnly drew his huge
silver time-piece from an unlocated pocket. He held it out into the
bright moonlight.

"Geminy crickets!" he exclaimed. "It's forty-nine minutes to twelve!"
Anderson Crow's policy was to always look at things through the small
end of the telescope.

The slow, hot summer wore away, and to Rosalie it was the longest that
she ever had experienced. She was tired of the ceaseless twaddle of
Tinkletown, its flow of "missions," "sociables," "buggy-horses," "George
Rawlin's new dress-suit," "harvesting," and "politics"--for even the
children talked politics. Nor did the assiduous attentions of the
village young men possess the power to shorten the days for her--and
they certainly lengthened the nights. She liked them because they were
her friends from the beginning--and Rosalie was not a snob. Not for the
world would she have hurt the feelings of one poor, humble, adoring soul
in Tinkletown; and while her smile was none the less sweet, her laugh
none the less joyous, in her heart there was the hidden longing that
smiled only in dreams. She longed for the day that was to bring Elsie
Banks to live with Mrs. Holabird, for with her would come a breath of
the world she had known for two years, and which she had learned to love
so well.

In three months seven men had asked her to marry them. Of the seven, one
only had the means or the prospect of means to support her. He was a
grass-widower with five grown children. Anderson took occasion to warn
her against widowers.

"Why," he said, "they're jest like widders. You know Dave Smith that
runs the tavern down street, don't you? Well, doggone ef he didn't turn
in an' marry a widder with seven childern an' a husband, an' he's led a
dog's life ever sence."

"Seven children and a husband? Daddy Crow!"

"Yep. Her derned husband wouldn't stay divorced when he found out Dave
could support a fambly as big as that. He figgered it would be jest as
easy to take keer of eight as seven, so he perlitely attached hisself to
Dave's kitchen an' started in to eat hisself to death. Dave was goin' to
have his wife apply fer another divorce an' leave the name blank, so's
he could put in either husband ef it came to a pinch, but I coaxed him
out of it. He finally got rid of the feller by askin' him one day to
sweep out the office. He could eat all right, but it wasn't natural fer
him to work, so he skipped out. Next I heerd of him he had married a
widder who was gittin' a pension because her first husband fit fer his
country. The Government shet off the pension jest as soon as she got
married ag'in, and then that blamed cuss took in washin' fer her. He
stayed away from home on wash-days, but as every day was wash-day with
her, he didn't see her by daylight fer three years. She died, an' now
he's back at Dave's ag'in. He calls Dave his husband-in-law."

It required all of Anderson's social and official diplomacy to forestall
an indignation meeting when it was announced that a stranger, Miss
Banks, had been selected to teach school No. 5. There was some talk of
mobbing the township trustee and Board of County Commissioners, but
Anderson secured the names of the more virulent talkers and threatened
to "jail" them for conspiracy.

"Why, Anderson," almost wailed George Ray, "that girl's from the city.
What does she know about grammar an' history an' all that? They don't
teach anything but French an' Italian in the cities an' you know it."

"Pshaw!" sniffed Anderson. "I hate grammar an' always did. I c'n talk
better Italian than grammar right now, an' I hope Miss Banks will teach
every child in the district how to talk French. You'd orter hear Rosalie
talk it. Besides, Rosie says she's a nice girl an'--an' needs the
job." Anderson lied bravely, but he swallowed twice in doing it.

[Illustration: "September brought Elsie Banks"]

September brought Elsie Banks to make life worth living for Rosalie. The
two girls were constantly together, talking over the old days and what
the new ones were to bring forth, especially for Miss Gray, who had
resumed wood carving as a temporary occupation. Miss Banks was more than
ever reluctant to discuss her own affairs, and Rosalie after a few
trials was tactful enough to respect her mute appeal. It is doubtful if
either of the girls mentioned the name of big, handsome Tom Reddon--Tom,
who had rowed in his college crew; but it is safe to say that both of
them thought of him more than once those long, soft, autumn
nights--nights when Tinkletown's beaux were fairly tumbling over
themselves in the effort to make New York life seem like a flimsy shadow
in comparison.




CHAPTER XI

Elsie Banks


Aderson Crow stood afar off--among the bleak, leafless trees of Badger's
Grove--and gazed thoughtfully, even earnestly, upon the little red
schoolhouse with its high brick chimney and snow-clad roof. A biting
January wind cut through his whiskers and warmed his nose to a
half-broiled shade of red. On the lapel of his overcoat glistened his
social and official badges, augmented by a new and particularly shiny
emblem of respect bestowed by the citizens of Tinkletown.

At first it had been the sense of the town to erect a monument in
recognition of his part in the capture of the Bramble County horse-thief
gang, but a thrifty and considerate committee of five substituted a
fancy gold badge with suitable inscriptions on both sides, extolling him
to the skies "long before he went there hisself" (to quote Uncle Gideon
Luce, whose bump of perception was a stubborn prophet when it came to
picking out the site of Mr. Crow's heaven). For a full half hour the
marshal of Tinkletown had been standing among the trees surveying the
schoolhouse at the foot of the slope. If his frosted cheeks and watery
eyes ached for the warmth that urged the curls of smoke to soar away
from the chimney-top, his attitude did not betray the fact. He was
watching and thinking, and when Anderson thought of one thing he never
thought of another at the same time.

"It'll soon be recess time," he reflected. "Then I'll step down there
an' let on to be makin' a social call on the schoolma'am. By gum, I
believe she's the one! It'll take some tarnation good work to find out
the truth about her, but I guess I c'n do it all right. The only thing I
got to guard ag'inst is lettin' anybody else know of the mystery
surroundin' her. Gosh! it'll surprise some of the folks 'round here,
'specially Rosalie. An' mebby the township trustee won't be sorry he
give the school this year to a strange girl instid o' to Jane Rankin er
Effie Dickens! Congressman Ritchey hadn't no business puttin' his nose
into our affairs anyhow, no matter if this here teacher is a friend of
his fambly. He's got some kind a holt on these here trustees--'y gosh,
I'd like to know what 'tis. He c'n jest wrap 'em round his finger an'
make 'em app'int anybody he likes. Must be politics. There, it's recess!
I'll jest light out an' pay the schoolhouse a little visit."

Inside a capacious and official pocket of Mr. Crow's coat reposed a
letter from a law firm in Chicago. It asked if within the last two years
a young woman had applied for a position as teacher in the township
schools at Tinkletown. A description accompanied the inquiry, but it was
admitted she might have applied under a name not her own, which was
Marion Lovering. In explanation, the letter said she had left her home
in Chicago without the consent of her aunt, imbued with the idea that
she would sooner support herself than depend upon the charity of that
worthy though wealthy relative. The aunt had recently died, and counsel
for the estate was trying to establish proof concerning the actions and
whereabouts of Miss Lovering since her departure from Chicago.

The young woman often had said she would become a teacher, a tutor, a
governess, or a companion, and it was known that she had made her way to
that section of the world presided over by Anderson Crow--although the
distinguished lawyers did not put it in those words. A reward of five
hundred dollars for positive information concerning the "life of the
girl" while in "that or any other community" was promised.

Miss Banks's appointment came through the agency of the district's
congressman, in whose home she had acted as governess for a period.
Moreover, she answered the description in that she was young, pretty,
and refined. Anderson Crow felt that he was on the right track; he was
now engaged in as pretty a piece of detective business as had ever
fallen to his lot, and he was not going to spoil it by haste and
overconfidence.

Just why Anderson Crow should "shadow" the schoolhouse instead of the
teacher's temporary place of abode no one could possibly have known but
himself--and it is doubtful if _he_ knew. He resolved not to answer the
Chicago letter until he was quite ready to produce the girl and the
proof desired.

"I'd be a gol-swiggled fool to put 'em onter my s'picions an' then have
'em cheat me out of the reward," he reflected keenly. "You cain't trust
them Chicago lawyers an inch an' a half. Doggone it, I'll never fergit
that feller who got my pockit-book out to Central Park that time. He
tole me positively he was a lawyer from Chicago, an' had an office in
the Y.M.C.A. Building. An' the idee of him tellin' me he wanted to see
if my pockit-book had better leather in it than hisn!"

The fact that the school children, big and little, loved Miss Banks
possessed no point of influence over their elders of the feminine
persuasion. They turned up their Tinkletown noses and sniffed at her
because she was a "vain creature," who thought more of "attractin' the
men than she did of anything else on earth." And all this in spite of
the fact that she was the intimate friend of the town goddess, Rosalie
Gray.

Everybody in school No. 5 over the age of seven was deeply, jealously in
love with Miss Banks. Many a frozen snowball did its deadly work from
ambush because of this impotent jealousy.

But the merriest rivalry was that which developed between Ed Higgins,
the Beau Brummel of Tinkletown, and 'Rast Little, whose father owned the
biggest farm in Bramble County. If she was amused by the frantic efforts
of each suitor to outwit the other she was too tactful to display her
emotion. Perhaps she was more highly entertained by the manner in which
Tinkletown femininity paired its venom with masculine admiration.

"Mornin', Miss Banks," was Anderson's greeting as he stamped noisily
into the room. He forgot that he had said good-morning to her when she
stopped in to see Rosalie on her way to the schoolhouse. The children
ceased their outdoor game and peered eagerly through the windows,
conscious that the visit of this dignitary was of supreme importance.
Miss Banks looked up from the papers she was correcting, the pucker
vanishing from her pretty brow as if by magic.

"Good-morning, Mr. Crow. What are you doing away out here in the
country? Jimmy"--to a small boy--"please close the door." Anderson had
left it open, and it was a raw January wind which followed him into the
room.

"'Scuse me," he murmured. "Seems I ain't got sense enough to shet a door
even. My wife says--but you don't keer to hear about that, do you? Oh, I
jest dropped in," finally answering her question. He took a bench near
the big stove and spread his hands before the sheet-iron warmth.
"Lookin' up a little affair, that's all. Powerful chilly, ain't it?"

"Very." She stood on the opposite side of the stove, puzzled by this
unexpected visit, looking at him with undisguised curiosity.

"Ever been to Chicago?" asked Anderson suddenly, hoping to catch her
unawares.

"Oh, yes. I have lived there," she answered readily. He shifted his legs
twice and took a hasty pull at his whiskers.

"That's what I thought. Why don't you go back there?"

"Because I'm teaching school here, Mr. Crow."

"Well, I reckon that's a good excuse. I thought mebby you had a
different one."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I dunno. I jest asked."

"You are a detective, are you not?" asked Miss Banks, smiling brightly
and with understanding.

"Oh, off an' on I do a little detectin'. See my badge?"

"Am I suspected of a heinous crime?" she asked so abruptly that he
gasped. "Won't you take off your cap, Mr. Crow?" He removed it
sheepishly.

"Lord, no!" he exclaimed in confusion. "I mean the crime--not the cap.
Well, I guess I'll be goin'. School's goin' to take up, I reckon. See
you later, Miss Banks." He restored his cap to its accustomed place and
was starting toward the door, a trifle dazed and bewildered.

"What is it that you wish to find out, Mr. Crow?" she suddenly called to
him. He halted and faced about so quickly that his reply came like a
shot out of a gun.

"I'm on the lookout fer a girl--an' she'll be's rich's Crowses if I c'n
only find 'er. I dassent tell 'er name jest now," he went on, slowly
retracing his steps, "'cause I don't want people--er her either, fer
that matter--to git onter my scheme. But you jest wait." He was standing
very close to her now and looking her full in the face. "You're sure you
don't know anythin' 'bout her?"

"Why, how should I know? You've told me nothing."

"You've got purty good clothes fer a common school-teacher," he flung at
her in an aggressive, impertinent tone, but the warm colour that swiftly
rose to her cheeks forced him to recall his words, for he quickly
tempered them with, "Er, at least, that's what all the women folks say."

"Oh, so some one has been talking about my affairs? Some of your
excellent women want to know more about me than--"

"Don't git excited, Miss Banks," he interrupted; "the women ain't got
anythin' to do with it--I mean, it's nothin' to them. I--"

"Mr. Crow," she broke in, "if there is anything you or anybody in
Tinkletown wants to know about me you will have to deduce it for
yourself. I believe that is what you call it--deduce? And now good-bye,
Mr. Crow. Recess is over," she said pointedly; and Mr. Crow shuffled out
as the children galloped in.

That evening Ed Higgins and 'Rast Little came to call, but she excused
herself because of her correspondence. In her little upstairs room she
wrote letter after letter, one in particular being voluminous. Mrs.
Holabird, as she passed her door, distinctly heard her laugh aloud. It
was a point to be recalled afterward with no little consideration. Later
she went downstairs, cloaked warmly, for a walk to the post-office. Ed
Higgins was still in the parlour talking to the family. He hastily put
in his petition to accompany her, and it was granted absently. Then he
surreptitiously and triumphantly glanced through the window, the scene
outside pleasing him audibly. 'Rast was standing at the front gate
talking to Anderson Crow. Miss Banks noticed as they passed the confused
twain at the gate that Anderson carried his dark lantern.

"Any trace of the heiress, Mr. Crow?" she asked merrily.

"Doggone it," muttered Anderson, "she'll give the whole snap away!"

"What's that?" asked 'Rast.

"Nothin' much," said Anderson, repairing the damage. "Ed's got your time
beat to-night, 'Rast, that's all!"

"I could 'a' took her out ridin' to-night if I'd wanted to," lied 'Rast
promptly. "I'm goin' to take her to the spellin'-bee to-morrow night out
to the schoolhouse."

"Did she say she'd go with you?"

"Not yet. I was jest goin' to ast her to-night."

"Mebby Ed's askin' her now."

"Gosh dern it, that's so! Maybe he is," almost wailed 'Rast; and
Anderson felt sorry for him as he ambled away from the gate and its
love-sick guardian.




CHAPTER XII

The Spelling-Bee


Young Mr. Higgins found his companion bubbling over with vivacity. Her
pretty chin was in the air and every word bore the promise of a laugh.
He afterward recalled one little incident of their walk through the
frosty night, and repeated it to Anderson Crow with more awe than seemed
necessary. They were passing the town pump on their way to the
post-office. The street was dark and deserted.

"Gosh!" said Ed, "I bet the town pump's froze up!"

"It doesn't seem very cold," she said brightly.

"Gee! it's below zero! I bet 'Rast thinks it's pretty doggone cold up
there by your gate."

"Poor 'Rast! His mother should keep him indoors on nights like this." Ed
laughed loud and long and a tingle of happiness shot through his
erstwhile shivering frame. "I'm not a bit cold," she went on. "See--feel
my hand. I'm not even wearing mittens."

Ed Higgins gingerly clasped the little hand, but it was withdrawn at
once. He found it as warm as toast. Words of love surged to his humble
lips; his knees felt a tendency to lower themselves precipitously to the
frozen sidewalk; he was ready to grovel at her feet--and he wondered if
they were as warm as toast. But 'Rast Little came up at that instant and
the chance was lost.

"Doggone!" slipped unconsciously but bitterly from Ed's lips.

"Can I be your company to the spellin'-bee to-morrow night, Miss Banks?"
burst unceremoniously from the lips of the newcomer.

"Thank you, 'Rast. I was just wondering how I should get out to the
schoolhouse. You are very kind. We'll go in the bob-sled with the
Holabirds."

"Doggone!" came in almost a wail from poor Ed. He could have killed
'Rast for the triumphant laugh that followed.

In the meantime Anderson Crow was preparing to crawl in between the icy
sheets at home. Mrs. Crow was "sitting up" with old Mrs. Luce, who was
ill next door.

"She's a girl with a past," reflected Anderson. "She's a mystery,
that's what she is; but I'll unravel her. She had a mighty good reason
fer sawin' me off out there to-day. I was gittin' too close home. She
seen I was about to corner her. By gum, I hope she don't suspect
nothin'! She's found out that Ed Higgins has a good job down to Lamson's
store, an' she's settin' her cap fer him. It shows she'd ruther live in
the city than in the country--so it's all up with 'Rast. That proves
she's from Chicago er some other big place. Ed's gettin' eight dollars a
week down there at Lamson's. By gum, that boy's doin' well! I used to
think he wouldn't amount to nothin'. It shows that the best of us git
fooled in a feller once in a while. To-morrow night I'll go out to the
spellin'-match, an' when the chanct comes I'll sidle up to her an'
whisper her real name in her ear. I bet four dollars an' a half that'll
fetch her purty prompt. Doggone, these here sheets air cold! It's forty
below zero right here in this bed."

Anderson Crow soon slept, but he did not dream of the tragedy the next
night was to bring upon Tinkletown, nor of the test his prowess was to
endure.

The next night and the "spellin'-bee" at school No. 5 came on apace
together. It was bitterly cold and starlight. By eight o'clock the warm
schoolhouse was comfortably filled with the "spellers" of the
neighbourhood, their numbers increased by competitors from Tinkletown
itself. In the crowd were men and women who time after time had "spelled
down" whole companies, and who were eager for the conflict. They had
"studied up" on their spelling for days in anticipation of a hard
battle in the words. Mrs. Borum and Mrs. Cartwill, both famous for their
victories and for the rivalry that existed between them, were selected
as captains of the opposing sides, and Miss Banks herself was to "give
out" the words. The captains selected their forces, choosing alternately
from the anxious crowd of grown folks. There were no children there, for
it was understood that big words would be given out--words children
could not pronounce, much less spell.

The teacher was amazingly pretty on this eventful night. She was dressed
as no other woman in Bramble County, except Rosalie Gray, could have
attired herself--simply, tastefully, daintily. Her face was flushed and
eager and the joy of living glowed in every feature. Ed Higgins and
'Rast Little were struck senseless, nerveless by this vision of health
and loveliness. Anderson Crow stealthily admitted to himself that she
was a stranger in a strange land; she was not of Tinkletown or any place
like it.

Just as the captains were completing their selections of spellers the
door opened and three strangers entered the school-room, overcoated and
furred to the tips of their noses--two men and a woman. As Miss Banks
rushed forward to greet them--she had evidently been expecting them--the
startled assemblage caught its breath and stared. To the further
amazement of every one, Rosalie hastened to her side and joined in the
effusive welcome. Every word of joyous greeting was heard by the amazed
listeners and every word from the strangers was as distinct. Surely
the newcomers were friends of long standing. When their heavy wraps
were removed the trio stood forth before as curious an audience as ever
sat spellbound. The men were young, well dressed and handsome; the woman
a beauty of the most dashing type. Tinkletown's best spellers quivered
with excitement.

[Illustration: "The teacher was amazingly pretty on this eventful
night"]

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Miss Banks, her voice trembling with
eagerness, "let me introduce my friends, Mrs. Farnsworth, Mr.
Farnsworth, and Mr. Reddon. They have driven over to attend the
spelling-match." Ed Higgins and 'Rast Little observed with sinking
hearts that it was Mr. Reddon whom she led forward by the hand, and they
cursed him inwardly for the look he gave her--because she blushed
beneath it.

"You don't live in Boggs City," remarked Mr. Crow, appointing himself
spokesman. "I c'n deduce that, 'cause you're carrying satchels an'
valises."

"Mr. Crow is a famous detective," explained Miss Banks. Anderson
attempted to assume an unconscious pose, but in leaning back he missed
the end of the bench, and sat sprawling upon the lap of Mrs. Harbaugh.
As Mrs. Harbaugh had little or no lap to speak of, his downward course
was diverted but not stayed. He landed on the floor with a grunt that
broke simultaneously with the lady's squeak; a fraction of a second
later a roar of laughter swept the room. It was many minutes before
quiet was restored and the "match" could be opened. Mrs. Cartwill chose
Mrs. Farnsworth and her rival selected the husband of the dashing young
woman. Mr. Reddon firmly and significantly announced his determination
to sit near the teacher "to preserve order," and not enter the contest
of words.

Possibly it was the presence of the strangers that rattled and unnerved
the famed spellers of both sides, for it was not long until the lines
had dwindled to almost nothing. Three or four arrogant competitors stood
forth and valiantly spelled such words as "Popocatepetl,"
"Tschaikowsky," "terpsichorean," "Yang-tse-Kiang," "Yseult," and scores
of words that could scarcely be pronounced by the teacher herself. But
at last, just as the sleepy watchers began to nod and yawn the hardest,
Mrs. Cartwill stood alone and victorious, her single opponent having
gone down on the word "sassafras." Anderson Crow had "gone down" early
in the match by spelling "kerosene" "kerry-seen." Ed Higgins followed
with "ceriseen," and 'Rast Little explosively had it "coal-oil."

During the turmoil incident to the dispersing of the gathered hosts Miss
Banks made her way to 'Rast Little's side and informed him that the
Farnsworths were to take her to Mrs. Holabird's in their big sleigh.
'Rast was floored. When he started to remonstrate, claiming to be her
"company," big Tom Reddon interposed and drew Miss Banks away from her
lover's wrath.

"But I'm so sorry for him, Tom," she protested contritely. "He _did_
bring me here--in a way."

"Well, I'll take you home another way," said good-looking Mr. Reddon. It
was also noticed that Rosalie Gray had much of a confidential nature to
say to Miss Banks as they parted for the evening, she to go home in
Blucher Peabody's new sleigh.

'Rast and Ed Higgins almost came to blows out at the hitch-rack, where
the latter began twitting his discomfited rival. Anderson Crow kept them
apart.

"I'll kill that big dude," growled 'Rast. "He's got no business comin'
here an' rakin' up trouble between me an' her. You mark my words, I'll
fix him before the night's over, doggone his hide!"

At least a dozen men, including Alf Reesling, heard this threat, and not
one of them was to forget it soon. Anderson Crow noticed that Mrs.
Holabird's bob-sled drove away without either Miss Banks or 'Rast
Little in its capacious depths. Miss Banks announced that her three
friends from the city and she would stay behind and close the
schoolhouse, putting everything in order. It was Friday night, and there
would be no session until the following Monday. Mr. Crow was very sleepy
for a detective. He snored all the way home.

The next morning two farmers drove madly into Tinkletown with the
astounding news that some one had been murdered at schoolhouse No. 5. In
passing the place soon after daybreak they had noticed blood on the snow
at the roadside. The school-room door was half open and they entered.
Blood in great quantities smeared the floor near the stove, but there
was no sign of humanity, alive or dead. Miss Banks's handkerchief was
found on the floor saturated.

Moreover, the school-teacher was missing. She had not returned to the
home of Mrs. Holabird the night before. To make the horror all the more
ghastly, Anderson Crow, hastening to the schoolhouse, positively
identified the blood as that of Miss Banks.




CHAPTER XIII

A Tinkletown Sensation


Sensations came thick and fast in Tinkletown during the next few hours.
Investigation proved that 'Rast Little was nowhere to be found. He had
not returned to his home after the spelling-bee, nor had he been seen
since. Mrs. Holabird passed him in the road on her way home in the
"bob-sled." In response to her command to "climb in" he sullenly said he
was going to walk home by a "short cut" through the woods. A farmer had
seen the stylish Farnsworth sleigh driving north furiously at half-past
eleven, the occupants huddled in a bunch as if to protect themselves
from the biting air. The witness was not able to tell "which was which"
in the sleigh, but he added interest to the situation by solemnly
asserting that one of the persons in the rear seat was "bundled up" more
than the rest, and evidently was unable to sit erect.

According to his tale, the figure was lying over against the other
occupant of the seat. He was also, positive that there were three
figures in the front seat! Who was the extra person? was the question
that flashed into the minds of the listeners. A small boy came to the
schoolhouse at nine o'clock in the morning with 'Rast Little's new derby
hat. He had picked it up at the roadside not far from the schoolhouse
and in the direction taken by the Farnsworth party.

Anderson gave orders that no word of the catastrophe be carried to
Rosalie, who was reported to be ill of a fever the next morning after
the spelling-bee. She had a cough, and the doctor had said that nothing
should be said or done to excite her.

The crowd at the schoolhouse grew larger as the morning passed Everybody
talked in whispers; everybody was mystified beyond belief. All eyes were
turned to Anderson Crow, who stood aloof, pondering as he had never
pondered before. In one hand he held Miss Banks's bloody handkerchief
and in the other a common school text-book on physiology. His badges
and stars fairly revelled in their own importance.

"Don't pester him with questions," warned Isaac Porter, addressing Alf
Reesling, the town drunkard, who had just arrived.

"But I got something I want to say to him," persisted Alf eagerly. Two
or three strong men restrained him.

"Thunderation, Alf," whispered Elon Jones, "cain't you see he's figurin'
something out? You're liable to throw him clear off the track if you say
a word to him."

"Well, this is something he'd oughter know," almost whimpered Alf,
rubbing his frozen ears.

"Sh!" muttered the bystanders, and poor Alf subsided. He was
unceremoniously hustled into the background as Mr. Crow moved from the
window toward the group.

"Gentlemen," said Anderson gravely, "there is somethin' wrong here." It
is barely possible that this was not news to the crowd, but with one
accord they collectively and severally exchanged looks of appreciation.
"I've been readin' up a bit on the human body, an' I've proved one thing
sure in my own mind."

"You bet you have, Anderson," said Elon Jones. "It's all settled. Let's
go home."

"Settled nothin'!" said the marshal. "It's jest begun. Here's what I
deduce: Miss Banks has been foully dealt with. Ain't this her blood, an'
ain't she used her own individual handkerchief to stop it up? It's
blood right square from her heart, gentlemen!"

"I don't see how--" began Ed Higgins; but Anderson silenced him with a
look.

"Of course _you_ don't, but you would if you'd 'a' been a detective as
long's I have. What in thunder do you s'pose I got these badges and
these medals fer? Fer _not_ seein' how? No, siree! I got 'em fer _seein_'
how; that's what!"

"But, Andy--"

"Don't call me 'Andy,'" commanded Mr. Crow.

"Well, then, Anderson, I'd like to know how the dickens she could use
her own handkerchief if she was stabbed to the heart," protested Ed. He
had been crying half the time. Anderson was stunned for the moment.

"Why--why--now, look here, Ed Higgins, I ain't got time to explain
things to a derned idgit like you. Everybody else understands _how_,
don't you?" and he turned to the crowd. Everybody said yes. "Well, that
shows what a fool you are, Ed. Don't bother me any more. I've got work
to do."

"Say, Anderson," began Alf Reesling from the outer circle, "I got
something important to tell--"

"Who is that? Alf Reesling?" cried Anderson wrathfully.

"Yes; I want to see you private, Anderson. Its important," begged Alf.

"How many times have I got to set down on you, Alf Reesling?" exploded
Anderson. "Doggone, I'd like to know how a man's to solve mysteries if
he's got to stand around half the time an' listen to fambly quarrels.
Tell yer wife I'll--"

"This ain't no family quarrel. Besides, I ain't got no wife. It's about
this here--"

"That'll do, now, Alf! Not another word out of you!" commanded Anderson
direfully.

"But, dern you, Anderson," exploded Alf, "I've got to tell you--"

But Anderson held up a hand.

"Don't swear in the presence of the dead," he said solemnly. "You're
drunk, Alf; go home!" And Alf, news and all was hustled from the
schoolhouse by a self-appointed committee of ten.

"Now, we'll search fer the body," announced Anderson. "Git out of the
way, Bud!"

"I ain't standin' on it," protested twelve-year-old Bud Long.

"Well, you're standin' mighty near them blood-stains an'--"

"Yes, 'n ain't blood a part of the body?" rasped Isaac Porter
scornfully; whereupon Bud faded into the outer rim.

"First we'll look down cellar," said Mr. Crow. "Where's the cellar at?"

"There ain't none," replied Elon Jones.

"What? No cellar? Well, where in thunder did they hide the body, then?"

"There's an attic," ventured Joe Perkins.

A searching party headed by Anderson Crow shinned up the ladder to the
low garret. No trace of a body was to be found, and the searchers came
down rather thankfully. Then, under Mr. Crow's direction, they searched
the wood piles, the woods, and the fields for many rods in all
directions. At noon they congregated at the schoolhouse. Alf Reesling
was there.

"Find it?" said he thickly, with a cunning leer. He had been drinking.
Anderson was tempted to club him half to death, but instead he sent him
home with Joe Perkins, refusing absolutely to hear what the town
drunkard had to say.

"Well, you'll wish you'd listened to me," ominously hiccoughed Alf; and
then, as a parting shot, "I wouldn't tell you now fer eighteen dollars
cash. You c'n go to thunder!" It was _lèse majesté_, but the crowd did
nothing worse than stare at the offender.

Before starting off on the trail of the big sleigh, Anderson sent this
message by wire to the lawyers in Chicago:

     "_I have found the girl you want, but the body is lost. Would you
     just as soon have her dead as alive_?

     "ANDERSON CROW."

In a big bob-sled the marshal and a picked sextette of men set off at
one o'clock on the road over which the sleigh had travelled many hours
before. Anderson had failed to report the suspected crime to the sheriff
at Boggs City and was working alone on the mystery. He said he did not
want anybody from town interfering with his affairs.

"Say, Andy--Anderson," said Harry Squires, now editor of the _Banner_,
"maybe we're hunting the wrong body and the wrong people."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, ain't 'Rast Little missing? Maybe he's been killed, eh? And say,
ain't there some chance that he did the killing? Didn't he say he was
going to murder that city chap? Well, supposing he did. We're on the
wrong track, ain't we?"

"Doggone you, Harry, that don't fit in with my deductions," wailed
Anderson. "I wish you'd let me alone. 'Rast may have done the killin',
but it's our place to find the body, ain't it? Whoever has been slew was
taken away last night in the sleigh. S'posin it was Mr. Reddon! Well,
consarn it, ain't he got a body same as anybody else? We've just got to
find somebody's body, that's all. We've got to prove the corpus
deelicti. Drive up, Bill!"

With a perseverance that spoke well for the detective's endurance, but
ill for his intelligence, the "bob" sped along aimlessly. It was
ridiculous to think of tracking a sleigh over a well-travelled road, and
it was not until they reached the cross-roads that Harry Squires
suggested that inquiries be made of the farmers in the neighbourhood.
After diligent effort, a farmer was discovered who said he had heard the
sleigh bells at midnight, and, peering from his window, had caught a
glimpse of the party turning south at the cross-roads.

"Jest as I thought!" exclaimed Anderson. "They went south so's to skip
Boggs City. Boys, they've got her body er 'Rast's body er that other
feller's body with 'em, an' they're skootin' down this pike so's to get
to the big bridge. My idee is that they allowed to drop the body in the
river, which ain't friz plum over."

"Gee! We ain't expected to search all over the bottom of the river, are
we, Anderson?" shivered Isaac Porter, the pump repairer.

"_I_ ain't," said the leader, "but I can deputise anybody I want to."

And so they hurried on to the six-span bridge that crossed the ice-laden
river. As they stood silent, awed and shivering on the middle span,
staring down into the black water with its navy of swirling ice-chunks,
even the heart of Anderson Crow chilled and grew faint.

"Boys," he said, "we've lost the track! Not even a bloodhound could
track 'em in that water."

"Bloodhound?" sniffed Harry Squires. "A hippopotamus, you mean."

They were hungry and cold, and they were ready to turn homeward.
Anderson said he "guessed" he'd turn the job over to the sheriff and his
men. Plainly, he was much too hungry to do any more trailing. Besides,
for more than an hour he had been thinking of the warm wood fire at
home. Bill Rubley was putting the "gad" to the horses when a man on
horseback rode up from the opposite end of the bridge. He had come far
and in a hurry, and he recognised Anderson Crow.

"Say, Anderson!" he called, "somebody broke into Colonel Randall's
summer home last night an' they're there yet. Got fires goin' in all
the stoves, an' havin' a high old time. They ain't got no business
there, becuz the place is closed fer the winter. Aleck Burbank went over
to order 'em out; one of the fellers said he'd bust his head if he
didn't clear out. I think it's a gang!"

A hurried interview brought out the facts. The invaders had come up in a
big sleigh long before dawn, and--but that was sufficient. Anderson and
his men returned to the hunt, eager and sure of their prey. Darkness was
upon them when they came in sight of Colonel Randall's country place in
the hills. There were lights in the windows and people were making merry
indoors; while outside the pursuing Nemesis and his men were wondering
how and where to assault the stronghold.

"I'll jest walk up an' rap on the door," said Anderson Crow, "lettin' on
to be a tramp. I'll ast fer somethin' to eat an' a place to sleep. While
I'm out there in the kitchen eatin' you fellers c'n sneak up an'
surround us. Then you c'n let on like you're lookin' fer me because I'd
robbed a hen-roost er something, an' that'll get 'em off their guard.
Once we all git inside the house with these shotguns we've got 'em where
we want 'em. Then I'll make 'em purduce the body."

"Don't we git anythin' to eat, too?" demanded Isaac Porter faintly.

"The horses ain't had nothin' to eat, Ike," said Anderson. "Ain't you as
good as a horse?"




CHAPTER XIV

A Case of Mistaken Identity


Detective Crow found little difficulty in gaining admittance to Colonel
Randall's summer home. He had secreted his badge, and it was indeed a
sorry-looking tramp who asked for a bite to eat at the kitchen door.

Three or four young women were busy with chafing dishes in this
department of the house, and some good-looking young men were looking on
and bothering them with attentions. In the front part of the house a
score of people were laughing and making merry.

"Gosh!" said the new tramp, twisting his chin whiskers, "how many of you
are there?"

"Oh, there are many more at home like us," trilled out one of the young
women gaily. "You're just in time, you poor old thing, to have some of
the bride-to-be's cake."

"I guess I'm in the wrong house," murmured Anderson blankly. "Is it a
weddin'?"

"No; but there will be one before many days. It's just a reunion. How I
wish Rosalie Gray were here!" cried another girl.

Just then there was a pounding on the door, and an instant later Isaac
Porter stalked in at the head of the posse.

"Throw up your hands!" called Anderson, addressing himself to the posse,
the members of which stopped in blank amazement. Some of them obligingly
stuck their hands on high. "What do you want here?"

"We--we--we're lookin' fer a tramp who said he robbed a hen roost,"
faltered Isaac Porter.

"What is the meaning of all this?" called a strong voice from the
dining-room, and the flabbergasted Tinkletownians turned to face Colonel
Randall himself, the owner of the house.

"Derned if I know!" muttered Anderson Crow; and he spoke the truth.

"Why, it's Anderson Crow!" cried a gay young voice.

"Jumpin' Jehosophat!" ejaculated the detective; "it's the body!"

"The school-teacher!" exclaimed the surprised Tinkletownians, as with
their eyes they proceeded to search the figure before them for blood
stains. But no sooner had the chorused words escaped their lips than
they realised how wretchedly commonplace was their blundering expression
in comparison with the faultlessly professional phraseology of their
leader; and, overwhelmed with mortification, the posse ached to recall
them; for that the correct technical term had been applied by one for
years trained to the vernacular of his calling was little consolation to
these sensitive souls, now consumed with envy.

In the meantime, the quarry, if we may be permitted so to designate her,
stood before them as pretty as a picture. At her side was Tom Reddon,
and a dozen guests of the house fell in behind them.

"Did Rosalie tell you?" demanded Miss Banks. "The mean thing! She said
she wouldn't."

"Ro--Rosalie!" gasped Anderson; "tell me what?" nervously.

"That I was--was coming over here with Tom. Didn't she tell you?"

"I should say not. If she'd told me you don't suppose I'd'a' driv' clear
over here in this kinder weather fer nothin', do you? Thunder! Did she
know 'bout it?"

"Certainly, Mr. Crow. She helped with the plans."

"Well, good gosh a'mighty! An' we was a-keepin' from her the awful news
fer fear 'twould give her a backset."

"Awful news! What do you mean? Oh, you frighten me terribly!"

"Doggone! I don't believe Rosalie was sick at all," continued Anderson,
quite regardless of the impatience of his listeners; "she jest wanted to
keep from answerin' questions. She jest regularly let everybody believe
you had been slaughtered, an' never opened her mouth."

"Slaughtered!" cried half a dozen people.

"Sure! Hain't you heard 'bout the murder?"

"Murder?" apprehensively from the excited New Yorkers.

"Yes--the teacher of schoolhouse No. 5 was brutally butchered
las--las--night--by--"

[Illustration: "What is the meaning of all this?"]

"Go slow, Anderson! Better hold your horses!" cautioned Harry
Squires. "Don't forget the body's alive and kic--" and stopping short,
in the hope that his break might escape the school-teacher's attention,
he confusedly substituted, "and here."

Anderson's jaw dropped, but the movement was barely perceptible, the
discomfiture temporary, for to the analytical mind of the great
detective the fact that a murder had been committed was fully
established by the discovery of the blood. That a body was obviously
necessary for the continuance of further investigations he frankly
acknowledged to himself; and not for one instant would any supposition
or explanation other than assassination be tolerated. And it was with
unshaken conviction that he declared:

"Well, somebody was slew, wasn't they? That's as plain's the nose on y'r
face. Don't you contradict me, Harry Squires. I guess Anderson Crow
knows blood when he sees it."

"Do you mean to tell me that you've been trailing us all day in the
belief that some one of us had killed somebody?" demanded Tom Reddon.

Harry Squires explained the situation, Anderson being too far gone to
step into the breach. It may be of interest to say that the Tinkletown
detective was the sensation of the hour. The crowd, merry once more,
lauded him to the skies for the manner in which the supposed culprits
had been trailed, and the marshal's pomposity grew almost to the
bursting point.

"But how about that blood?" he demanded.

"Yes," said Harry Squires with a sly grin, "it was positively identified
as yours, Miss Banks."

"Well, it's the first time I was ever fooled," confessed Anderson
glibly. "I'll have to admit it. The blood really belonged to 'Rast
Little. Boys, the seegars are on me."

"No, they're on me," exclaimed Tom Reddon, producing a box of Perfectos.

"But, Miss Banks, you are wanted in Chicago," insisted Anderson. Reddon
interrupted him.

"Right you are, my dear Sherlock, and I'm going to take her there as
soon as I can. It's what I came East for."

"Ain't--I mean, wasn't you Miss Lovering?" muttered Anderson Crow.

"Good heavens, no!" cried Miss Banks. "Who is she--a shoplifter?"

"I'll tell you the story, Mr. Crow, if you'll come with me," said Mr.
Farnsworth, stepping forward with a wink.

In the library he told the Tinkletown posse that Tom Reddon had met Miss
Banks while she was at school in New York. He was a Chicago
millionaire's son and she was the daughter of wealthy New York people.
Her mother was eager to have the young people marry, but the girl at
that time imagined herself to be in love with another man. In a pique
she left school and set forth to earn her own living. A year's hardship
as governess in the family of Congressman Ritchey and subsequent
disillusionment as a country school-teacher brought her to her senses
and she realised that she cared for Tom Reddon after all. She and Miss
Gray together prepared the letter which told Reddon where she could be
found, and that eager young gentleman did the rest. He had been waiting
for months for just such a message from her. The night of the
spelling-match he induced her to come to Colonel Randall's, and now the
whole house-party, including Miss Banks, was to leave on the following
day for New York. The marriage would take place in a very few weeks.

"I'll accept your explanation," said Mr. Crow composedly as he took a
handful of cigars. "Well, I guess I'll be startin' back. It's gettin'
kind o' late-like."

There was a telegram at the livery stable for him when he reached that
haven of warmth and rest in Tinkletown about dawn the next day. It was
from Chicago and marked "Charges collect."

       *       *       *       *       *

"What girl and whose body," it said, "do you refer to? Miss Lovering has
been dead two years, and we are settling the estate in behalf of the
other heirs. We were trying to establish her place of residence. Never
mind the body you have lost."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Doggone," said Anderson, chuckling aloud, "that was an awful good joke
on 'Rast, wasn't it?"

The stablemen stood around and looked at him with jaws that were
drooping helplessly. The air seemed laden with a sombre uncertainty that
had not yet succeeded in penetrating the nature of Marshal Crow.

"Is it from her?" finally asked Ike Smith hoarsely, his lips trembling.

"From what her?"

"Rosalie."

"Thunder, no! It's from my lawyers in Chicago."

"Ain't you--ain't you heerd about it?" half groaned Ike, moving away as
if he expected something calamitous.

"What the dickens are you fellers drivin' at?" demanded Anderson. The
remainder of his posse deserted the red-hot stove and drew near with the
instinctive feeling that something dreadful had happened.

"Ro--Rosalie has been missin' sence early last night. She was grabbed by
some feller near Mrs. Luce's, chucked into a big wagon an' rushed out of
town before Ros Crow could let out a yell. Clean stole her--look out!
Ketch him, Joe!"

Anderson dropped limply into a hostler's arms.




CHAPTER XV

Rosalie Disappears


Things had happened in Tinkletown that night. Alf Reesling finally found
some one who would listen to his story. He told the minister and the
minister alarmed the town. To be brief, Alf admitted that 'Rast Little
was at his house in the outskirts of the village, laid up with a broken
arm and a bad cut in the top of his head.

"He came crawlin' up to my place about six o'clock in the mornin',"
explained Alf, "an' I took the poor cuss in. That's what I wanted to
tell Anderson, but the old rip wouldn't listen to me. Seems as though
'Rast waited around the schoolhouse last night to git a crack at that
feller from town. Miss Banks and her three friends set around the stove
in the schoolhouse for about an hour after the crowd left, an' 'Rast got
so cold he liked to died out there in the woodshed.

"Purty soon they all come out, an' 'Rast cut acrost the lot to git
inside the house by the fire. He was so derned cold that he didn't feel
like crackin' anybody. When they wasn't lookin' he sneaked inside. Jest
as he was gittin' ready to hug the stove he heard Miss Banks an' one of
the men comin' back. He shinned up the ladder into the garret just in
time. In they come an' the feller lit a lamp. 'Rast could hear 'em
talkin'. She said good-bye to the schoolhouse forever, an' the feller
kissed her a couple of times. 'Rast pretty nigh swore out loud at that.
Then she said she'd leave a note in her desk fer the trustees, resignin'
her job, er whatever she called it. He heard her read the note to the
man, an' it said somethin' about goin' away unexpected to git married.
'Rast says ef Anderson had looked in the desk he'd have found the note.

"Then she packed up some books an' her an' the feller went out. 'Rast
was paralysed. He heerd the sleigh-bells jingle an' then he come to. He
started down the ladder so quick that he missed his hold and went
kerslam clear to the bottom. Doggone ef he didn't light on his head,
too. He don't know how long he laid there, but finally he was
resurrected enough to crawl over by the stove. His arm was broke an' he
was bleedin' like a stuck hog. Miss Banks had left her handkerchief on
the desk, an' he says he tried to bind up his head with it, but it was
too infernal small. Somehow he got outside an' wandered around half
crazy fer a long time, finally pullin' up at my house, derned nigh froze
to death an' so weak he couldn't walk no more. He'd lost his hat an' his
ear muffs an' his way all at the same time. If Anderson had let me talk
this mornin' he'd 'a' knowed there wasn't no murder. It was just a
match."

Hours passed before Anderson was himself again and able to comprehend
the details of the story which involved the disappearance of his ward.
It slowly filtered through his mind as he sat stark-eyed and numb before
the kitchen fire that this was the means her mysterious people had taken
to remove her from his custody. The twenty years had expired, and they
had come to claim their own. There was gloom in the home of Anderson
Crow--gloom so dense that death would have seemed bright in comparison.
Mrs. Crow was prostrated, Anderson in a state of mental and physical
collapse, the children hysterical.

All Tinkletown stood close and ministered dumbly to the misery of the
bereaved ones, but made no effort to follow or frustrate the abductors.
The town seemed as helpless as the marshal, not willingly or wittingly,
but because it had so long known him as leader that no one possessed the
temerity to step into his place, even in an hour of emergency.

A dull state of paralysis fell upon the citizens, big and little. It
was as if universal palsy had been ordained to pinch the limbs and
brains of Tinkletown until the hour came for the rehabilitation of
Anderson Crow himself. No one suggested a move in any direction--in
fact, no one felt like moving at all. Everything stood stockstill while
Anderson slowly pulled himself together; everything waited dumbly for
its own comatose condition to be dispelled by the man who had been hit
the hardest.

It was not until late in the afternoon that Blucher Peabody, the
druggist, awoke from his lethargy and moved as though he intended to
take the initiative. "Blootch" was Rosalie's most persistent admirer. He
had fallen heir to his father's apothecary shop and notion store, and he
was regarded as one of the best catches in town. He approached the
half-frozen crowd that huddled near old Mrs. Luce's front gate. In this
crowd were some of the prominent men of the town, young and old; they
left their places of business every half hour or so and wandered
aimlessly to the now historic spot, as if drawn by a magnet. Just why
they congregated there no one could explain and no one attempted to do
so. Presumably it was because the whole town centred its mind on one of
two places--the spot where Rosalie was seized or the home of Anderson
Crow. When they were not at Mrs. Luce's gate they were tramping through
Anderson's front yard and into his house.

"Say," said "Blootch" so loudly that the crowd felt like remonstrating
with him, "what's the use of all this?"

No one responded. No one was equal to it on such short notice.

"We've got to do something besides stand around and whisper," he said.
"We've got to find Rosalie Gray."

"But good gosh!" ejaculated Isaac Porter, "they've got purty nigh a
day's start of us."

"Well, that don't matter. Anderson would do as much for us. Let's get a
move on."

"But where in thunder will we hunt?" murmured George Ray.

"To the end of the earth," announced Blootch, inflating his chest and
slapping it violently, a strangely personal proceeding, which went
unnoticed. He had reached the conclusion that his chance to be a hero
was at hand and not to be despised. Here was the opportunity to outstrip
all of his competitors in the race for Rosalie's favour. It might be
confessed that, with all his good intentions, his plans were hopelessly
vague. The group braced up a little at the sound of his heroic words.

"But the derned thing's round," was the only thing Ed Higgins could find
to say. Ed, as fickle as the wind, was once more deeply in love with
Rosalie, having switched from Miss Banks immediately after the visit to
Colonel Randall's.

"Aw, you go to Guinea!" was Blootch's insulting reply. Nothing could be
more disparaging than that, but Ed failed to retaliate. "Let's appoint a
committee to wait on Anderson and find out what he thinks we'd better
do."

"But Anderson ain't--" began some one. Blootch calmly waived him into
silence.

"What he wants is encouragement, and not a lot of soup and broth and
lemonade. He ain't sick. He's as able-bodied as I am. Every woman in
town took soup to him this noon. He needs a good stiff drink of whiskey
and a committee to cheer him up. I took a bottle up to 'Rast Little last
night and he acted like another man."

At last it was decided that a committee should first wait on Anderson,
ascertaining his wishes in the premises, and then proceed to get at the
bottom of the mystery. In forming this committee the wise men of the
town ignored Mr. Peabody, and he might have been left off completely had
he not stepped in and appointed himself chairman.

The five good men and true descended upon the marshal late in the
afternoon, half fearful of the result, but resolute. They found him
slowly emerging from his spell of lassitude. He greeted them with a
solemn nod of the head. Since early morning he had been conscious of a
long stream of sympathisers passing through the house, but it was not
until now that he felt equal to the task of recognising any of them.

His son Roscoe had just finished telling him the story of the abduction.
Roscoe's awestruck tones and reddened eyes carried great weight with
them, and for the tenth time that day he had his sisters in tears. With
each succeeding repetition the details grew until at last there was but
little of the original event remaining, a fact which his own family
properly overlooked.

"Gentlemen," said Anderson, as if suddenly coming from a trance, "this
wasn't the work of Tinkletown desperadoes." Whereupon the committee felt
mightily relieved. The marshal displayed signs of a returning energy
that augured well for the enterprise. After the chairman had
impressively announced that something must be done, and that he was
willing to lead his little band to death's door--and beyond, if
necessary--Mr. Crow pathetically upset all their hopes by saying that he
had long been expecting such a calamity, and that nothing could be done.

"They took the very night when I was not here to pertect her," he
lamented. "It shows that they been a-watchin' me all along. The job was
did by persons who was in the employ of her family, an' she has been
carried off secretly to keep me from findin' out who and what her
parents were. Don't ye see? Her mother--or father, fer that
matter--couldn't afford to come right out plain an' say they wanted
their child after all these years. The only way was to take her away
without givin' themselves away. It's been the plan all along. There
ain't no use huntin' fer her, gentlemen. She's in New York by this time,
an' maybe she's ready fer a trip to Europe."

"But I should think she'd telegraph to you," said Blootch.

"Telegraph yer granny! Do you s'pose they'd 'a' stole her if they
intended to let her telegraph to anybody? Not much. They're spiritin'
her away until her estate's settled. After a while it will all come out,
an' you'll see if I ain't right. But she's gone. They've got her away
from me an'--an' we got to stand it, that's all. I--I--cain't bear to
think about it. It's broke my heart mighty ne--near. Don't mind me
if--I--cry, boys. You would, too, if you was me."

As the committee departed soon after without any plan of action arising
from the interview with the dejected marshal, it may be well to acquaint
the reader with the history of the abduction, as told by Roscoe Crow and
his bosom friend, Bud Long, thoroughly expurgated.

According to instructions, no one in the Crow family mentioned the
strange disappearance of Elsie Banks to Rosalie. Nor was she told of the
pursuit by the marshal and his posse. The girl, far from being afflicted
with a fever, really now kept in her room by grief over the departure of
her friend and companion. She was in tears all that night and the next
day, suffering intensely in her loss. Rosalie did not know that the
teacher was to leave Tinkletown surreptitiously until after the
spelling-bee. The sly, blushing announcement came as a shock, but she
was loyal to her friend, and not a word in exposure escaped from her
lips. Of course, she knew nothing of the sensational developments that
followed the uncalled-for flight of Elsie Banks.

Shortly after the supper dishes had been cleared away Rosalie came
downstairs and announced that she was going over to read to old Mrs.
Luce, who was bedridden. Her guardian's absence was not explained to
her, and she did not in the least suspect that he had been away all day
on a fool's errand. Roscoe and Bud accompanied her to Mrs. Luce's front
door, heavily bound by promises to hold their tongues regarding Miss
Banks.

"We left her there at old Mis' Luce's," related Roscoe, "an' then went
over to Robertson's Pond to skate. She tole us to stop in fer her about
nine o'clock, didn't she, Bud? Er was it eight?" He saw the necessity
for accuracy.

"Ten," corrected Bud deliberately.

"Well, pop, we stopped fer her, an'--an'--"

"Stop yer blubberin', Roscoe," commanded Anderson as harshly as he
could.

"An' got her," concluded Roscoe. "She put on her shawl an' mittens an'
said she'd run us a race all the way home. We all got ready to start
right in front of old Mis' Luce's gate. Bud he stopped an' said, 'Here
comes Tony Brink.' We all looked around, an' sure enough, a heavy-set
feller was comin' to'rds us. It looked like Tony, but when he got up to
us I see it wasn't him. He ast us if we could tell him where Mr. Crow
lived--"

"He must 'a' been a stranger," deduced Anderson mechanically.

"--an' Bud said you lived right on ahead where the street lamps was.
Jest then a big sleigh turned out of the lane back of Mis' Luce's an'
drove up to where we was standin'. Bud was standin' jest like this--me
here an' Rosalie a little off to one side. S'posin' this chair was her
an'--"

"Yes--yes, go on," from Anderson.

"The sleigh stopped, and there was two fellers in it. There was two
seats, too."

"Front and back?"

"Yes, sir."

"I understand. It was a double-seated one," again deduced the marshal.

"An' nen, by gum, 'fore we could say Jack Robinson, one of the fellers
jumped out an' grabbed Rosalie. The feller on the groun', he up an' hit
me a clip in the ear. I fell down, an' so did Bud--"

"He hit me on top of the head," corrected Bud sourly.

"I heerd Rosalie start to scream, but the next minute they had a blanket
over her head an' she was chucked into the back seat. It was all over in
a second. I got up, but 'fore I could run a feller yelled, 'Ketch him!'
An' another feller did. 'Don't let 'em get away,' said the driver in
low, hissin' tones--"

"Regular villains," vowed Anderson.

"Yes, sir. 'Don't let 'em git away er they'll rouse the town.' 'What'll
we do with 'em?' asked the feller who held both of us. 'Kill 'em?' Gosh,
I was skeered. Neither one of us could yell, 'cause he had us by the
neck, an' he was powerful strong. 'Chuck 'em in here an' I'll tend to
'em,' said the driver. Next thing we knowed we was in the front of the
sleigh, an' the whole outfit was off like a runaway. They said they'd
kill us if we made a noise, an' we didn't. I wish I'd'a' had my rifle,
doggone it! I'd'a' showed 'em."

"They drove like thunder out to'rds Boggs City fer about two mile," said
Bud, who had been silent as long as human nature would permit. "'Nen
they stopped an' throwed us out in the road. 'Go home, you devils, an'
don't you tell anybody about us er I'll come back here some day an' give
you a kick in the slats.'

"Slats?" murmured Anderson.

"That's short fer ribs," explained Bud loftily.

"Well, why couldn't he have said short ribs an' been done with it?"
complained Anderson.

"Then they whipped up an' turned off west in the pike," resumed Bud. "We
run all the way home an' tole Mr. Lamson, an' he--"

"Where was Rosalie all this time?" asked Anderson.

"Layin' in the back seat covered with a blanket, jest the same as if she
was dead. I heerd 'em say somethin' about chloroformin' her. What does
chloroform smell like, Mr. Crow?"

"Jest like any medicine. It has drugs in it. They use it to pull teeth.
Well, what then?"

"Well," interposed Roscoe, "Mr. Lamson gave the alarm, an' nearly
ever'body in town got out o' bed. They telegraphed to Boggs City an' all
around, but it didn't seem to do no good. Them horses went faster'n
telegraphs."

"Did you ever see them fellers before?"

"No, sir; but I think I'd know 'em with their masks off."

"Was they masked?"

"Their faces were."

"Oh, my poor little Rosalie!" sobbed old Anderson hopelessly.




CHAPTER XVI

The Haunted House


Days passed without word or sign from the missing girl. The marshal
haunted the post-office and the railroad station, hoping with all his
poor old heart that word would come from her; but the letter was not
there, nor was there a telegram at the station when he strolled over to
that place. The county officials at Boggs City came down and began a
cursory investigation, but Anderson's emphatic though doleful opinions
set them quite straight, and they gave up the quest. There was nothing
to do but to sit back and wait.

In those three days Anderson Crow turned greyer and older, although he
maintained a splendid show of resignation. He had made a perfunctory
offer of reward for Rosalie, dead or alive, but he knew all the time
that it would be fruitless. Mark Riley, the bill-poster, stuck up the
glaring reward notices as far away as the telegraph poles in Clay
County. The world was given to understand that $1000 reward would be
paid for Rosalie's return or for information leading to the apprehension
and capture of her abductors.

There was one very mysterious point in connection with the
affair--something so strange that it bordered on the supernatural. No
human being in Bramble County except the two boys had seen the
double-seated sleigh. It had disappeared as if swallowed by the earth
itself.

"Well, it don't do any good to cry over spilt milk," said Anderson
bravely. "She's gone, an' I only hope she ain't bein' mistreated. I
don't see why they should harm her. She's never done nobody a wrong.
Like as not she's been taken to a comfortable place in New York, an'
we'll hear from her as soon as she recovers from the shock. There ain't
no use huntin' fer her, I know, but I jest can't help nosin' around a
little. Mebby I can git some track of her. I'd give all I got in this
world to know that she's safe an' sound, no matter if I never see her
ag'in."

The hungry look in his eyes deepened, and no one bandied jests with him
as was the custom in days gone by.

       *       *       *       *       *

There were not many tramps practising in that section of the State.
Anderson Crow proudly announced that they gave Tinkletown a wide berth
because of his prowess; but the vagabond gentry took an entirely
different view of the question. They did not infest the upper part of
the State for the simple but eloquent reason that it meant starvation to
them. The farmers compelled the weary wayfarer to work all day like a
borrowed horse for a single meal at the "second table." There was no
such thing as a "hand-out," as it is known in the tramp's vocabulary. It
is not extraordinary, therefore, that tramps found the community so
unattractive that they cheerfully walked miles to avoid it. A
peculiarly well-informed vagrant once characterised the up-state farmer
as being so "close that he never shaved because it was a waste of hair."

It is hardly necessary to state, in view of the attitude of both farmer
and tramp, that the misguided vagrant who wandered that way was the
object of distinct, if not distinguished, curiosity. In the country
roads he was stared at with a malevolence that chilled his appetite, no
matter how long he had been cultivating it on barren soil. In the
streets of Tinkletown, and even at the county seat, he was an object of
such amazing concern that he slunk away in pure distress. It was indeed
an unsophisticated tramp who thought to thrive in Bramble County even
for a day and a night. In front of the general store and post-office at
Tinkletown there was a sign-post, on which Anderson Crow had painted
these words:

     "No tramps or Live Stock Allowed on these Streets.
             By order of
                     A. CROW, Marshal."

The live stock disregarded the command, but the tramp took warning. On
rare occasions he may have gone through some of the houses in
Tinkletown, but if he went through the streets no one was the wiser.
Anderson Crow solemnly but studiously headed him off in the outskirts,
and he took another direction. Twice in his career he drove out tramps
who had burglarised the houses of prominent citizens in broad daylight,
but what did it matter so long as the "hoboes" were kept from
desecrating the main street of the town? Mr. Crow's official star,
together with his badge from the New York detective agency, his Sons of
the Revolution pin, and his G.A.R. insignia, made him a person to be
feared. If the weather became too hot for coat and vest the proud
dignitary fastened the badges to his suspenders, and their presence
glorified the otherwise humble "galluses."

On the fourth day after the abduction Marshal Crow was suddenly aroused
from his lethargy by the news that the peace and security of the
neighbourhood was being imposed upon.

"The dickens you say!" he observed, abandoning the perpetual grip upon
his straggling chin whiskers.

"Yes, sir," responded the excited small boy, who, with two companions,
had run himself quite out of breath all over town before he found the
officer at Harkin's blacksmith shop.

"Well, dang 'em!" said Mr. Crow impressively.

"We was skatin' in the marsh when we heerd 'em plain as day," said the
other boy. "You bet I'm nuvver goin' nigh that house ag'in."

"Sho! Bud, they ain't no sech thing as ghosts," said Mr. Crow; "it's
tramps."

"You know that house is ha'nted," protested Bud. "Wasn't ole Mrs. Rank
slew there by her son-in-law? Wasn't she chopped to pieces and buried
there right in her own cellar?"

"Thunderation, boy, that was thirty year ago!"

"Well, nobody's lived in the ha'nted house sence then, has they? Didn't
Jim Smith try to sleep there oncet on a bet, an' didn't he hear sech
awful noises 'at he liked to went crazy?" insisted Bud.

[Illustration: The haunted house]

"I _do_ recollect that Jim run two mile past his own house before he
could stop, he was in sech a hurry to git away from the place. But Jim
didn't _see_ anything. Besides, that was twenty year ago. Ghosts don't
hang aroun' a place when there ain't nothin' to ha'nt. Her son-in-law
was hung, an' she ain't got no one else to pester. I tell you it's
tramps."

"Well, we just thought we'd tell you, Mr. Crow," said the first boy.

In a few minutes it was known throughout the business centre of
Tinkletown that tramps were making their home in the haunted house down
the river, and that Anderson Crow was to ride forth on his bicycle to
rout them out. The haunted house was three miles from town and in the
most desolate section of the bottomland. It was approachable only
through the treacherous swamp on one side or by means of the river on
the other. Not until after the murder of its owner and builder, old
Johanna Rank, was there an explanation offered for the existence of a
home in such an unwholesome locality.

Federal authorities discovered that she and her son-in-law, Dave Wolfe,
were at the head of a great counterfeiting gang, and that they had been
working up there in security for years, turning out spurious coins by
the hundred. One night Dave up and killed his mother-in-law, and was
hanged for his good deed before he could be punished for his bad ones.
For thirty years the weather-beaten, ramshackle old cabin in the swamp
had been unoccupied except by birds, lizards, and other denizens of the
solitude--always, of course, including the ghost of old Mrs. Rank.

Inasmuch as Dave chopped her into small bits and buried them in the
cellar, while her own daughter held the lantern, it was not beyond the
range of possibility that certain atoms of the unlamented Johanna were
never unearthed by the searchers. It was generally believed in the
community that Mrs. Rank's spirit came back every little while to nose
around in the dirt of the cellar in quest of such portions of her person
as had not been respectably interred in the village graveyard.

Mysterious noises had been heard about the place at the dead hour of
night, and ghostly lights had flitted past the cellar windows. All
Tinkletown agreed that the place was haunted and kept at a most
respectful distance. The three small boys who startled Marshal Crow from
his moping had gone down the river to skate instead of going to school.
They swore that the sound of muffled voices came from the interior of
the cabin, near which they had inadvertently wandered. Although Dave
Wolfe had been dead thirty years, one of the youngest of the lads was
positive that he recognised the voice of the desperado. And at once the
trio fled the 'cursed spot and brought the horrifying news to Anderson
Crow. The detective was immediately called upon to solve the ghostly
mystery.

Marshal Crow first went to his home and donned his blue coat,
transferring the stars and badges to the greasy lapel of the garment. He
also secured his dark lantern and the official cane of the village, but
why he should carry a cane on a bicycle expedition was known only to
himself. Followed by a horde of small boys and a few representative
citizens of Tinkletown on antiquated wheels, Mr. Crow pedalled
majestically off to the south. Skirting the swamp, the party approached
the haunted house over the narrow path which ran along the river bank.
Once in sight of the dilapidated cabin, which seemed to slink farther
and farther back into the dense shadows of the late afternoon, with all
the diffidence of the supernatural, the marshal called a halt and
announced his plans.

"You kids go up an' tell them fellers I want to see 'em," he commanded.
The boys fell back and prepared to whimper.

"I don't want to," protested Bud.

"Why don't you go an' tell 'em yourself, Anderson?" demanded Isaac
Porter, the pump repairer.

"Thunderation, Ike, who's runnin' this thing?" retorted Anderson Crow.
"I got a right to deputise anybody to do anything at any time. Don't you
s'pose I know how to handle a job like this? I got my own idees how to
waylay them raskils, an' I reckon I been in the detectin' business long
enough to know how to manage a gol-derned tramp, ain't I? How's that?
Who says I ain't?"

"Nobody said a word, Anderson," meekly observed Jim Borum.

"Well, I _thought_ somebody did. An' I don't want nobody interferin'
with an officer, either. Bud, you an' them two Heffner boys go up an'
tell them loafers to step down here right spry er I'll come up there an'
see about it."

"Gosh, Mr. Crow, I'm a-skeered to!" whimpered Bud. The Heffner boys
started for home on a dead run.

"Askeered to?" sniffed Anderson. "An' your great-grand-dad was in the
Revolution, too. Geminy crickets, ef you was my boy I'd give you
somethin' to be askeered of! Now, Bud, nothin' kin happen to you. Ain't
I here?"

"But suppose they won't come when I tell 'em?"

"Yes, 'n' supposin' 'tain't tramps, but ghosts?" volunteered Mr. Porter,
edging away with his bicycle. It was now quite dark and menacing in
there where the cabin stood. As the outcome of half an hour's
discussion, the whole party advanced slowly upon the house, Anderson
Crow in the lead, his dark lantern in one hand, his cane in the other.
Half way to the house he stopped short and turned to Bud.

"Gosh dern you, Bud! I don't believe you heerd any noise in there at
all! There ain't no use goin' any further with this, gentlemen. The dern
boys was lyin'. We might jest as well go home." And he would have
started for home had not Isaac Porter uttered a fearful groan and
staggered back against a swamp reed for support, his horrified eyes
glued upon a window in the log house. The reed was inadequate, and Isaac
tumbled over backward.

For a full minute the company stared dumbly at the indistinct little
window, paralysis attacking every sense but that of sight. At the
expiration of another minute the place was deserted, and Anderson Crow
was the first to reach the bicycles far up the river bank. Every face
was as white as chalk, and every voice trembled. Mr. Crow's dignity
asserted itself just as the valiant posse prepared to "straddle" the
wheels in mad flight.

"Hold on!" he panted. "I lost my dark lantern down there. Go back an'
git it, Bud."

"Land o' mighty! Did y'ever see anythin' like it?" gasped Jim Borum,
trying to mount a ten-year-old boy's wheel instead of his own.

"I'd like to have anybody tell me there ain't no sech things as ghosts,"
faltered Uncle Jimmy Borton, who had always said there wasn't. "Let go,
there! Ouch!" The command and subsequent exclamation were the inevitable
results of his unsuccessful attempt to mount with Elon Jones the same
wheel.

"What'd I tell you, Anderson?" exclaimed Isaac Porter. "Didn't I say it
was ghosts? Tramps nothin'! A tramp wouldn't last a second up in that
house. It's been ha'nted fer thirty years an' it gits worse all the
time. What air we goin' to do next?"

Even the valiant Mr. Crow approved of an immediate return to Tinkletown,
and the posse was trying to disentangle its collection of bicycles when
an interruption came from an unsuspected quarter--a deep, masculine
voice arose from the ice-covered river hard by, almost directly below
that section of the bank on which Anderson and his friends were herded.
The result was startling. Every man leaped a foot in the air and every
hair stood on end; bicycles rattled and clashed together, and Ed
Higgins, hopelessly bewildered, started to run in the direction of the
haunted house.




CHAPTER XVII

Wicker Bonner, Harvard


"Hello, up there!" was what the deep, masculine voice shouted from the
river. Anderson Crow was the first to distinguish the form of the
speaker, and he was not long in deciding that it was far from
ghost-like. With a word of command he brought his disorganised forces
out of chaos and huddled them together as if to resist attack.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded, addressing his men in a loud
tone. "Don't get rattled!"

"Are you speaking to me?" called the fresh voice from below.

"Who are you?" demanded Mr. Crow in return.

"Nobody in particular. What's going on up there? What's the fuss?"

"Come up an' find out." Then Mr. Crow, observing that the man below was
preparing to comply, turned and addressed his squad in low, earnest
tones. "This feller will bear watchin'. He's mixed up in this thing
somehow. Else why is he wanderin' around here close to the house? I'll
question him."

"By gosh, he ain't no ghost!" murmured Ed Higgins, eyeing the newcomer
as he crawled up the bank. "Say, did y' see me a minute ago? If you
fellers had come on, I was goin' right up to search that house from top
to bottom. Was you all askeered to come?"

"Aw, you!" said Anderson Crow in deep scorn.

The next instant a stalwart young fellow stood before the marshal, who
was eyeing him keenly, even imperiously. The newcomer's good-looking,
strong-featured face was lighted up by a smile of surpassing
friendliness.

"It's lonesome as thunder down here, isn't it? Glad to see you,
gentlemen. What's up--a bicycle race?"

"No, sir; we got a little business up here, that's all," responded
Anderson Crow diplomatically. "What air you doin' here?"

"Skating. My name is Wicker Bonner, and I'm visiting my uncle,
Congressman Bonner, across the river. You know him, I dare say. I've
been hanging around here for a week's hunting, and haven't had an ounce
of luck in all that time. It's rotten! Aha, I see that you are an
officer, sir--a detective, too. By George, can it be possible that you
are searching for some one? If you are, let me in on it. I'm dying for
excitement."

The young man's face was eager and his voice rang true. Besides, he was
a tall, athletic chap, with brawny arms and a broad back. Altogether, he
would make a splendid recruit, thought Anderson Crow. He was dressed in
rough corduroy knickerbockers, the thick coat buttoned up close to his
muffled neck. A woollen cap came down over his ears and a pair of skates
dangled from his arm.

"Yes, sir; I'm a detective, and we are up here doin' a little
investigatin'. You are from Chicago, I see."

"What makes you think so?"

"Can't fool me. I c'n always tell. You said, 'I've _bean_ hangin','
instead of 'I've _ben_ hangin'.' See? They say _bean_ in Chicago. Ha!
ha! You didn't think I could deduce that, did you?"

"I'll confess that I didn't," said Mr. Bonner with a dry smile. "I'm
from Boston, however."

"Sure," interposed Isaac Porter; "that's where the beans come from,
Anderson."

"Well, that's neither here nor there," said Mr. Crow, hastily changing
the subject. "We're wastin' time."

"Stayin' here, you mean?" asked Ed Higgins, quite ready to start.
Involuntarily the eyes of the posse turned toward the house among the
willows. The stranger saw the concerted glance and made inquiry.
Whereupon Mr. Crow, assisted by seven men and five small boys, told Mr.
Wicker Bonner, late of Harvard, what had brought them from Tinkletown to
the haunted house, and what they had seen upon their arrival. Young
Bonner's face glowed with the joy of excitement.

"Great!" he cried, fastening his happy eyes upon the hated thing among
the trees. "Let's search the place. By George, this is glorious!"

"Not on your life!" said Ed Higgins. "You can't get me inside that
house. Like as not a feller'd never come out alive."

"Well, better men than we have died," said Mr. Bonner tranquilly. "Come
on; I'll go in first. It's all tommy-rot about the place being haunted.
In any event, ghosts don't monkey around at this time of day. It's
hardly dusk."

"But, gosh dern it," exploded Anderson Crow, "we seen it!"

"I seen it first," said Isaac Porter proudly.

"But I heerd it first," peeped up Master Bud.

"You've all been drinking hard cider or pop or something like that,"
said the brawny scoffer.

"Now, see here, you're gittin' fresh, an--" began the marshal, swelling
up like a pigeon.

"Look out behind!" sang out Mr. Bonner, and Anderson jumped almost out
of his shoes, besides ripping his shirt in the back, he turned so
suddenly.

"Jeemses River!" he gasped.

"Never turn your back on an unknown danger," cautioned the young man
serenely. "Be ready to meet it."

"If you're turned t'other way you c'n git a quicker start if you want to
run," suggested Jim Borum, bracing himself with a fresh chew of tobacco.

"What time is it?" asked Wicker Bonner.

Anderson Crow squinted up through the leafless treetops toward the
setting sun; then he looked at the shadow of a sapling down on the bank.

"It's about seven minutes past five--in the evenin'," he said
conclusively. Bonner was impolite enough to pull out his watch for
verification.

"You're a minute fast," he observed; but he looked at Anderson with a
new and respectful admiration.

"He c'n detect anything under the sun," said Porter with a feeble laugh
at his own joke.

"Well, let's go up and ransack that old cabin," announced Bonner,
starting toward the willows. The crowd held back. "I'll go alone if
you're afraid to come," he went on. "It's my firm belief that you didn't
see anything and the noise you boys heard was the wind whistling through
the trees. Now, tell the truth, how many of you saw it?"

"I did," came from every throat so unanimously that Jim Borum's
supplemental oath stood out alone and forceful as a climax.

"Then it's worth investigating," announced the Boston man. "It is
certainly a very mysterious affair, and you, at least, Mr. Town Marshal,
should back me up in the effort to unravel it. Tell me again just what
it was you saw and what it looked like."

"I won't let no man tell me what my duties are," snorted Anderson, his
stars trembling with injured pride. "Of course I'm going to solve the
mystery. We've got to see what's inside that house. I thought it was
tramps at first."

"Well, lead on, then; I'll follow!" said Bonner with a grin.

"I thought you was so anxious to go first!" exclaimed Anderson with fine
tact. "Go ahead yourself, ef you're so derned brave. I dare you to."

Bonner laughed loud enough to awaken every ghost in Bramble County and
then strode rapidly toward the house. Anderson Crow followed slowly and
the rest straggled after, all alert for the first sign of resistance.

"I wish I could find that derned lantern," said Anderson, searching
diligently in the deep grass as he walked along, in the meantime
permitting Bonner to reach the grim old doorway far in advance of him.

"Come on!" called back the intrepid leader, seeing that all save the
marshal had halted. "You don't need the lantern. It's still daylight,
old chap. We'll find out what it was you all saw in the window."

"That's the last of him," muttered Isaac Porter, as the broad back
disappeared through the low aperture that was called a doorway. There
were no window sashes or panes in the house, and the door had long since
rotted from the hinges.

"He'll never come out. Let's go home," added Ed Higgins conclusively.

"Are you coming?" sang out Bonner from the interior of the house. His
voice sounded prophetically sepulchral.

"Consarn it, cain't you wait a minute?" replied Anderson Crow, still
bravely but consistently looking for the much-needed dark lantern.

"It's all right in here. There hasn't been a human being in the house
for years. Come on in; it's fine!"

Anderson Crow finally ventured up to the doorway and peeped in. Bonner
was standing near the tumbledown fireplace, placidly lighting a
cigarette.

"This is a fine job you've put up on me," he growled. "I thought there
would be something doing. There isn't a soul here, and there hasn't
been, either."

"Thunderation, man, you cain't see ghosts when they don't want you to!"
said Anderson Crow. "It was a ghost, that's settled. I knowed it all
the time. Nothin' human ever looked like it, and nothin' alive ever
moaned like it did."

By this time the rest of the party had reached the cabin door. The less
timorous ventured inside, while others contented themselves by looking
through the small windows.

"Well, if you're sure you really saw something, we'd better make a
thorough search of the house and the grounds," said Bonner, and
forthwith began nosing about the two rooms.

The floors were shaky and the place had the odour of decayed wood. Mould
clung to the half-plastered walls, cobwebs matted the ceilings, and
rotted fungi covered the filth in the corners. Altogether it was a most
uninviting hole, in which no self-respecting ghost would have made its
home. When the time came to climb up to the little garret Bonner's
followers rebelled. He was compelled to go alone, carrying the lantern,
which one of the small boys had found. This part of the house was even
more loathsome than below, and it would be impossible to describe its
condition. He saw no sign of life, and retired in utter disgust. Then
came the trip to the cellar. Again he had no followers, the Tinkletown
men emphatically refusing to go down where old Mrs. Rank's body had been
buried. Bonner laughed at them and went down alone. It was nauseous with
age and the smell of damp earth, but it was cleaner there than above
stairs. The cellar was smaller than either of the living rooms, and was
to be reached only through the kitchen. There was no exit leading
directly to the exterior of the house, but there was one small window at
the south end. Bonner examined the room carefully and then rejoined the
party. For some reason the posse had retired to the open air as soon as
he left them to go below. No one knew exactly why, but when one started
to go forth the others followed with more or less alacrity.

"Did you see anything?" demanded the marshal.

"What did old Mrs. Rank look like when she was alive?" asked Bonner with
a beautifully mysterious air. No one answered; but there was a sudden
shifting of feet backward, while an expression of alarmed inquiry came
into every face. "Don't back into that open well," warned the amused
young man in the doorway. Anderson Crow looked sharply behind, and
flushed indignantly when he saw that the well was at least fifty feet
away. "I saw something down there that looked like a woman's toe," went
on Bonner very soberly.

"Good Lord! What did I tell you?" cried the marshal, turning to his
friends. To the best of their ability they could not remember that
Anderson had told them anything, but with one accord the whole party
nodded approval.

"I fancy it was the ghost of a toe, however, for when I tried to pick it
up it wriggled away, and I think it chuckled. It disappear--what's the
matter? Where are you going?"

It is only necessary to state that the marshal and his posse retreated
in good order to a dista

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