n 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. 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