The Daughter of Anderson Crow
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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
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.