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.