The Daughter of Anderson Crow
Anderson. "Husband nothin'! Do you s'pose she'd 'a' trusted that baby
with a fool husband on a terrible night like that? Ladies and gentlemen,
this here baby was left by a _female_ resident of this very town." His
hearers gasped and looked at him wide-eyed. "If she has a husband, he
don't know he's the father of this here baby. Don't you see that a woman
couldn't 'a' carried a heavy baskit any great distance? She couldn't 'a'
packed it from Boggs City er New York er Baltimore, could she? She
wouldn't 'a' been strong enough. No, siree; she didn't have far to come,
folks. An' she was a woman, 'cause ain't all typewritin' done by women?
You don't hear of men typewriters, do you? People wouldn't have 'em.
Now, the thing fer me to do first is to make a house-to-house search to
see if I c'n locate a typewritin' machine anywheres. Get out of the way,
Toby. Doggone you boys, anyhow, cain't you see I want ter get started on
this job?"
"Say, Anderson," said Harry Squires, the reporter, "I'd like to ask if
there is any one in Tinkletown, male or female, who can afford to pay
you a thousand dollars a year for taking care of that kid?"
"What's that?" slowly oozed from Anderson's lips.
"You heard what I said. Say, don't you know you can bring up a kid in
this town for eleven or twelve dollars a year?"
"You don't know what you're talkin' about," burst from Anderson's
indignant lips, but he found instant excuse to retire from the circle of
speculators. A few minutes later he and his wife were surreptitiously
re-reading the note, both filled with the fear that it said $10.00
instead of $1000.
CHAPTER VI
Reflection and Deduction
"By gum, it does say a thousand," cried Anderson, mightily relieved.
"Harry Squires is a fool. He said jest now that it could be did fer
eleven or twelve dollars. Don't you suppose, Eva, that the mother of
this here child knows what it costs to bring 'em up? Of course she does.
When I find her I'll prove it by her own lips that she knows. But don't
bother me any more, Eva; I got to git out an' track her down. This is
the greatest job I've had in years."
"See here, Anderson," said his wife thoughtfully and somewhat
stealthily, "let's go slow about this thing. What do you want to find
her for?"
"Why--why, doggone it, Eva, what air you talkin' about?" began he in
amazement.
"Well, it's just this way: I don't think we can earn a thousand dollars
a year easier than takin' care of this child. Don't you see? Suppose we
keep her fer twenty years. That means twenty thousand dollars, don't it?
It beats a pension all to pieces."
"Well, by ginger!" gasped Anderson, vaguely comprehending. "Fifty years
would mean fifty thousand dollars, wouldn't it. Gee whiz, Eva!"
"I don't imagine we can keep her that long."
"No," reflectively; "the chances are she'd want ter git married inside
of that time. They always--
"'Tain't that, Anderson. You an' me'd have to live to be more'n a
hundred years old."
"That's so. We ain't spring chickens, are we, deary?"
She put her hard, bony hand in his and there was a suspicion of moisture
in the kindly old eyes.
"I love to hear you call me 'deary,' Anderson. We never get too old for
that."
He coughed and then patted her hand rather confusedly. Anderson had long
since forgotten the meaning of sentiment, but he was surprised to find
that he had not forgotten how to love his wife.
"Shucks!" he muttered bravely. "We'll be kissin' like a couple of young
jay birds first thing we know. Doggone if it ain't funny how a baby,
even if it is some one else's, kinder makes a feller foolisher'n he
intends to be." Hand in hand they watched the sleeping innocent for
several minutes. Finally the detective shook himself and spoke:
"Well, Eva, I got to make a bluff at findin' out whose baby it is, ain't
I? My reputation's at stake. I jest have to investigate."
"I don't see that any harm can come from that, Anderson," she replied,
and neither appreciated the sarcasm unintentionally involved.
"I won't waste another minute," he announced promptly. "I will stick to
my theory that the parents live in Tinkletown."
"Fiddlesticks!" snorted Mrs. Crow disgustedly, and then left him to
cultivate the choleric anger her exclamation had inspired.
"Doggone, I wish I hadn't patted her hand," he lamented. "She didn't
deserve it. Consarn it, a woman's always doin' something to spoil
things."
And so he fared forth with his badges and stars, bent on duty, but not
accomplishment. All the town soon knew that he was following a clew, but
all the town was at sea concerning its character, origin, and
plausibility. A dozen persons saw him stop young Mrs. Perkins in front
of Lamson's store, and the same spectators saw his feathers droop as she
let loose her wrath upon his head and went away with her nose in the air
and her cheeks far more scarlet than when Boreas kissed them, and all in
response to a single remark volunteered by the faithful detective. He
entered Lamson's store a moment later, singularly abashed and red in the
face.
"Doggone," he observed, seeing that an explanation was expected, "she
might 'a' knowed I was only foolin'."
A few minutes later he had Alf Reesling, the town sot, in a far corner
of the store talking to him in a most peremptory fashion. It may be well
to mention that Alf had so far forgotten himself as to laugh at the
marshal's temporary discomfiture at the hands of Mrs. Perkins.
"Alf, have you been havin' another baby up to your house without lettin'
me know?" demanded Anderson firmly.
"Anderson," replied Alf, maudlin tears starting in his eyes, "it's not
kind of you to rake up my feelin's like this. You know I been a widower
fer three years."
"I want you to understand one thing, Alf Reesling. A detective never
_knows_ anything till he proves it. Let me warn you, sir, you are under
suspicion. An' now, let me tell you one thing more. Doggone your ornery
hide, don't you ever laugh ag'in like you did jest now er I'll--"
Just then the door flew open with a bang and Edna Crow, Anderson's
eldest, almost flopped into the store, her cap in her hand, eyes
starting from her head. She had run at top speed all the way from home.
"Pop," she gasped. "Ma says fer you to hurry home! She says fer you to
_run_!"
Anderson covered the distance between Lamson's store and his own home in
record time. Indeed, Edna, flying as fast as her slim legs could
twinkle, barely beat her father to the front porch. It was quite clear
to Mr. Crow that something unusual had happened or Mrs. Crow would not
have summoned him so peremptorily.
She was in the hallway downstairs awaiting his arrival, visibly
agitated. Before uttering a word she dragged him into the little
sitting-room and closed the door. They were alone.
"Is it dead?" he panted.
"No, but what do you think, Anderson?" she questioned excitedly.
"I ain't had time to think. You don't mean to say it has begun to talk
an' c'n tell who it is," he faltered.
"Heavens no--an' it only six weeks old."
"Well, then, what in thunder _has_ happened?"
"A _detective_ has been here."
"Good gosh!"
"Yes, a _real_ detective. He's out there in the kitchen gettin' his feet
warm by the bake-oven. He says he's lookin' for a six-weeks-old baby.
Anderson, we're goin' to lose that twenty thousand."
"Don't cry, Eva; mebby we c'n find another baby some day. Has he seen
the--the--it?" Anderson was holding to the stair-post for support.
"Not yet, but he says he understands we've got one here that ain't been
_tagged_--that's what he said--'tagged.' What does he mean by that?"
"Why--why, don't you see? Just as soon as he tags it, it's _it_.
Doggone, I wonder if it would make any legal difference if I tagged it
first."
"He's a queer-lookin' feller, Anderson. Says he's in disguise, and he
certainly looks like a regular scamp."
"I'll take a look at him an' ast fer his badge." Marshal Crow paraded
boldly into the kitchen, where the strange man was regaling the younger
Crows with conversation the while he partook comfortably of pie and
other things more substantial.
"Are you Mr. Crow?" he asked nonchalantly, as Anderson appeared before
him.
"I am. Who are you?"
"I am Hawkshaw, the detective," responded the man, his mouth full of
blackberry pie.
"Gee whiz!" gasped Anderson. "Eva, it's the celebrated Hawkshaw."
"Right you are, sir. I'm after the kid."
"You'll have to identify it," something inspired Anderson to say.
"Sure. That's easy. It's the one that was left on your doorstep last
night," said the man glibly.
"Well, I guess you're right," began Anderson disconsolately.
"Boy or girl?" demanded Mrs. Crow, shrewdly and very quickly. She had
been inspecting the man more closely than before, and woman's intuition
was telling her a truth that Anderson overlooked. Mr. Hawkshaw was not
only very seedy, but very drunk.
"Madam," he responded loftily, "it is nothing but a mere child."
"I'll give you jest one minute to get out of this house," said Mrs. Crow
sharply, to Anderson's consternation. "If you're not gone, I'll douse
you with this kettle of scalding water. Open the back door, Edna. He
sha'n't take his dirty self through my parlour again. _Open that door,
Edna!_"
Edna, half paralysed with astonishment, opened the kitchen door just in
time. Mr. Hawkshaw was not so drunk but he could recognise disaster when
it hovered near. As she lifted the steaming kettle from the stove he
made a flying leap for the door. The rush of air that followed him as he
shot through the aperture almost swept Edna from her feet. In ten
seconds the tattered Hawkshaw was scrambling over the garden fence and
making lively if inaccurate tracks through last year's cabbage patch.
CHAPTER VII
The Mysterious Visitor
The entire Crow family watched him in stupefaction until he disappeared
down the lane that led to Hapgood's grove. It was then, and not until
then, that Anderson Crow took a breath.
"Good Lord, Eva, what do you mean?" he gasped.
"Mean?" she almost shrieked. "Anderson Crow, didn't you recognise that
feller? He ain't no more detective than you er me. He's the self-same
tramp that you put in the calaboose last week, and the week before, too.
I thought I'd seen his ugly face before. He's--"
"Great jumpin' geeswax!" roared the town marshal. "I recollect him now.
He's the one that said he'd been exposed to smallpox an' wanted to be
kept where it was warm all winter. Well, I'll be--I'll be--"
"Don't say it, pa. He said it fer you when he clumb over that barb-wire
fence out there," cried Edna gleefully.
Several days of anxiety and energy followed this interesting episode. In
that time two tramps attempted to obtain food and shelter at Crow's
home, one on the plea that he was the father of the unfortunate child,
the other as an officer for the Foundlings' Home at Boggs City. Three
babies were left on the doorstep--two in one night--their fond mothers
confessing fessing by letters that they appreciated Anderson's
well-known charitable inclinations and implored him to care for their
offspring as if they were his own. The harassed marshal experienced some
difficulty in forcing the mothers to take back their children.
In each instance he was reviled by the estimable ladies, all of whom
accused him of being utterly heartless. Mrs. Crow came to his rescue and
told the disappointed mothers that the scalding water was ready for
application if they did not take their baskets of babies away on short
order. It may be well for the reputation of Tinkletown to mention that
one of the donors was Mrs. Raspus, a negro washerwoman who did work for
the "dagoes" engaged in building the railroad hard by; another was the
wife of Antonio Galli, a member of the grading gang, and the third was