d up in front of the _Weekly Banner_
establishment to tell the reporter "the news" that his equanimity
received its first jar. He was quite proud of the deal, and, moreover,
he enjoyed seeing his name in the paper. In the meantime almost
everybody in Tinkletown was discussing the awful profligacy of the
stranger. It had not occurred to anybody to wonder why he had been in
such a hurry to reach Crow's Cliff, a wild, desolate spot down the
river.

"The hoss alone is worth fifty dollars easy," volunteered Mr. Crow
triumphantly. The detective's badge on his inflated chest seemed to
sparkle with glee.

"Say, Anderson, isn't it a little queer that he should sell out so
cheap?" asked Harry Squires, the local reporter and pressfeeder.

"What's that?" demanded Anderson Crow sharply.

"Do you think it's really true that he bought the nag up at Boggs City?"
asked the sceptic. Mr. Crow wallowed his quid of tobacco helplessly for
a minute or two. He could feel himself turning pale.

"He said so; ain't that enough?" he managed to bluster.

"It seems to have been," replied Harry, who had gone to night school in
Albany for two years.

"Well, what in thunder are you talking about then?" exclaimed Anderson
Crow, whipping up.

"I'll bet three dollars it's a stolen outfit!"

"You go to Halifax!" shouted Anderson, but his heart was cold. Something
told him that Harry Squires was right. He drove home in a state of dire
uncertainty and distress. Somehow, his enthusiasm was gone.

"Dang it!" he said, without reason, as he was unhitching the horse in
the barn lot.

"Hey, Mr. Crow!" cried a shrill voice from the street. He looked up and
saw a small boy coming on the run.

"What's up, Toby?" asked Mr. Crow, all a-tremble. He knew!

"They just got a telephone from Boggs City," panted the boy, "down to
the _Banner_ office. Harry Squires says for you to hurry down--buggy and
all. It's been stole."

"Good Lord!" gasped Anderson. His badge danced before his eyes and then
seemed to shrivel.

Quite a crowd had collected at the _Banner_ office. There was a sudden
hush when the marshal drove up. Even the horse felt the intensity of the
moment. He shied at a dog and then kicked over the dashboard, upsetting
Anderson Crow's meagre dignity and almost doing the same to the vehicle.

"You're a fine detective!" jeered Harry Squires; and poor old Anderson
hated him ever afterward.

"What have you heerd?" demanded the marshal.

"There's be