"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 conge 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 naively.

"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.



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.



"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 seem' 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 lese majeste, 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—"



"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.