"Now, we'll search fer the body," announced Anderson. "Git out of the
way, Bud!"
"I ain't standin' on it," protested twelve-year-old Bud Long.
"Well, you're standin' mighty near them blood-stains an'--"
"Yes, 'n ain't blood a part of the body?" rasped Isaac Porter
scornfully; whereupon Bud faded into the outer rim.
"First we'll look down cellar," said Mr. Crow. "Where's the cellar at?"
"There ain't none," replied Elon Jones.
"What? No cellar? Well, where in thunder did they hide the body, then?"
"There's an attic," ventured Joe Perkins.
A searching party headed by Anderson Crow shinned up the ladder to the
low garret. No trace of a body was to be found, and the searchers came
down rather thankfully. Then, under Mr. Crow's direction, they searched
the wood piles, the woods, and the fields for many rods in all
directions. At noon they congregated at the schoolhouse. Alf Reesling
was there.
"Find it?" said he thickly, with a cunning leer. He had been drinking.
Anderson was tempted to club him half to death, but instead he sent him
home with Joe Perkins, refusing absolutely to hear what the town
drunkard had to say.
"Well, you'll wish you'd listened to me," ominously hiccoughed Alf; and
then, as a parting shot, "I wouldn't tell you now fer eighteen dollars
cash. You c'n go to thunder!" It was _lese majeste_, but the crowd did
nothing worse than stare at the offender.
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