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.
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