"
"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.
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