"
"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.
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