Nor was he unprovided with a badge of office. Upon his immature chest,
concealed by his waist-coat, was an eight-pointed star emblazoned with
an open eye. Billy had once proudly confided to me that the star was
"pure German Silver." A year before he had answered an advertisement
which made known that a trusty man was wanted in every community "to act
for us in a confidential capacity. Address for particulars, with stamp."

The particulars were that you sent the International Detective
Association five dollars for a badge. After that you were their
confidential agent, and if a "case" occurred in your territory, you were
the man they turned to.

Billy's five hard-earned dollars had gone to the great city, and back
had come his star. He wore it secretly at first, but was moved at length
to display it to a few chosen friends; not wisely chosen, it would
appear, for now there were mockers of Billy among the irreverent of the
town. As he sat aloft on his boot-blacking throne, waiting for crime to
be done among us, conning meantime one of those romances in which his
heroes did rare deeds, he would be subjected to intrusion. Some coarse
town humorist would leer upon him from the doorway--a leer of furtive,
devilish cunning--and whisper hoarsely, "Hist! Are we alone?"

Struck thus below the belt of his dignity, our hero could only
respond:--

"Aw, that's all right! You g'wan out a' here now an' quit your foolin'!"

But criminals seemed to have conspired against Little Arcady, to cheat
it of its rightful distinction. In vain had Billy waited for a "case" to
be sent him by the International Detective Agency. In vain had he sought
to develop one by his own ferreting genius. Each week he searched the
columns of the police paper in Harpin Gust's barber-shop, fixing in his
mind the lineaments of criminals there advertised as wanted in various
corners of our land. These were counterfeiters, murderers, embezzlers,
horse-thieves, confidence men, what not--criminals to satisfy a sleuth
of the most catholic tastes; but they were all wanted elsewhere--at
Altoona, Pennsylvania, or Deming, New Mexico; at Portland, Maine, or
Dodge City, Kansas. In truth, the country elsewhere swarmed with Billy's
lawful prey, and only Little Arcady seemed good.

Billy also gloated over the portraits of well-known deputy sheriffs and
other officers of the law printed in the same charming police paper. It
seemed not too much to hope that his own likeness mi