Anderson Crow, Detective

  NO QUESTIONS ANSWERED

  REWARD!!!

  $25.00 For the Apprehension or Capture of Person or Persons Who Successfully Stole the Fashionable Bulldog Belonging to Mrs. M. Fryback on or About Friday of Last Week!

  N. B.--Said dog occasionally answers to the name of Marmaduke, but mostly to Mike.

  An Additional Reward of Three Dollars Cash will be paid for the return of said dog, with or without said Criminals. No Questions asked.

  A. CROW, Marshal of Tinkletown.

  The foregoing poster, fresh from the press of the _Banner_ printingoffice, made itself conspicuous at no less than a dozen points in thevillage of Tinkletown on a blustery February morning. Early visitors tothe post office in Lamson's store were the first to discover it, tackedneatly on the bulletin board. Others saw it in front of the Town Hall,while others, who rarely took the trouble to look at a telephone polebefore leaning against it, found themselves gazing with interest at thenotice that covered the customary admonition:

  "Post No Bills."

  Of course every one in Tinkletown knew, and had known for the matter ofa week or more, that Mort Fryback's bulldog was "lost, strayed orstolen," but this was the first glaring intimation that Mort had alsolost his mind. In the first place, Mike--as he was familiarly known toevery inhabitant--wasn't worth more than a dollar and a half when he wasin his prime, and that, according to recollection, must have been atleast twelve or fifteen years prior to his unexplained disappearance. Inthe second place, it was pretty generally understood that Mike--recentlyMarmaduke--had surreptitiously taken a dose of prussic acid in a shedback of Kepsal's blacksmith shop and was now enjoying a state of perfectrejuvenation in the happy hunting ground.

  Mr. Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, after having scanned four of thenotices on his way to the post office, informed a group of citizens infront of Brubaker's drugstore that Anderson Crow would do almostanything to get his name into print. Alf and the town marshal had hadone of their periodical "fallings out," and, for the moment at least,the former was inclined to bitterness.

  "To begin with," explained Alf, "there ain't a dog in this town that'sworth stealin', to say nothin' of three dollars. You can't tell me thatMort Fryback would give three dollars to get that dog back, not even ifhe was alive--which he ain't, if you c'n believe Bill Kepsal. No, sir;it's just because Anderson wants to see his name in print, that's whatit is. I bet if you was to ask Mort if he has agreed to pay--how much isit all told?--twenty-eight dollars--if he has agreed to pay all thatmoney for _nothin'_, he'd order you out of his store."

  "Mrs. Fryback told my wife a couple of weeks ago that Marmaduke was aprize bull, and she wouldn't take a hundred dollars for him," said NewtSpratt. "Seems that she had somebody look up his pedigree, and he turnsout to be a stepson or something like that of a dog that won first prizeat a bench show--whatever that is--in New York City."

  "Ever since that actress woman was here last fall,--that friend of HarrySquires, I mean,--every derned dog in town has turned out to be relatedsome way or other to a thoroughbred animal in some other city," saidAlf. "Why, even that mangy shepherd dog of Deacon Rank's--accordin' toMrs. Rank--is a direct descendant of two of the finest Boston terriersthat ever came out of Boston. She told me so herself, but, of course, Icouldn't ask how he happened to look so much like a shepherd dog and solittle like his parents, 'cause there's no use makin' poor Mrs. Rankany more miserable than she already is--she certainly don't get any funout of life, livin' with the deacon from one year's end to the other.Yes, sir; just because that actress woman paraded around here for amonth or so last fall with a French poodle, is no reason, far as I cansee, why all the women in town should begin puttin' leashes on theirdogs and washin' 'em and trimmin' 'em and tying red ribbons around theirnecks--yes, and around some of their tails, too. I'll never forget thatstub-tail dog of Angie Nixon's going around with a blue bow stickin'straight up behind him, and lookin' as though he'd lost something andgot dizzy looking for it. And Mort's dog, Mike--poor old Mike,--why, hegot so he'd go down to Hawkins' undertakin' shop every time he could geta minute off and bark till Lem would let him in, and then he'd lay downin a corner and go to sleep, and Lem always swore the poor dog was asmad as a hornet when he woke up and found he was still alive."

  "What puzzles me is why Mort Fryback's offerin' this reward, and allthat, if he knows the dog is dead. It costs money to have bills likethis printed at the _Banner_ office." So spoke Elmer Pratt, thephotographer. "Wasn't he present at the obsequies?"

  "No, he wasn't," said Alf. "He claims now that he don't know anythingabout it, and, besides, Bill Kepsal says he'll beat the head off ofanybody that says Mike passed away on his premises--including Mort. Sonaturally Mort denies it. He told me yesterday he would deny it even ifhe had both of his legs; but what chance, says he, has a one-legged mangot with big Bill Kepsal?"

  "Here comes Anderson now," said Mr. Spratt, his gaze fixed on anapproaching figure.

  It was zero weather in northern New York State, and the ancient Marshalof Tinkletown was garbed accordingly. The expansive collar of hisbrass-buttoned ulster was turned up, completely obscuring the ear-flapsand part of the coonskin cap he was wearing. An enormous pair of arcticscovered his feet; his grey and red mittens were of the homemade variety;a muffler of the same material enveloped his gaunt neck, knotted looselyunder his chin in such a way as to leave his whiskers free not only tothe wind but to the vicissitudes of conversation as well. The emblem ofauthority, a bright silver star, gleamed on the breast of his ulster.

  He stopped when he reached the group huddled in front of the drugstore,and glared accusingly at Alf Reesling.

  "I thought I told you to keep off the streets," he said ominously."Didn't I tell you yesterday I'd run you in if I caught you drunk in thestreets again?"

  "Yes, you did," replied Alf, in a justifiably bellicose manner; "but Istill stick to what I said to you at first when you said that to me."

  "What was that?"

  "I said you couldn't ketch me even if I was dead drunk and unconsciousin the gutter, that's what I said."

  "For two cents, I'd show you," said Anderson.

  "Well, go ahead. Just add two cents to what you claim I already owe you,and go ahead with your runnin' me in. But before you do it, lemme warnyou I'll sue you for false arrest, and then where'll you be? I got fivewitnesses right here that'll swear I ain't drunk now and haven't been intwenty-three years."

  "That shows just how drunk you are," said Anderson triumphantly. "Far asI can see, there are only four men here."

  "Don't you call yourself a man?"

  "What say?"

  "I mean I got five witnesses includin' you, that's what I mean. I'mgettin' sick of you all the time tellin' me I been drinkin' again, whenyou know I ain't touched a drop since 1896. Why, dog-gone you, AndyCrow, if it wasn't for me an' the way you keep on talkin' about juggin'me, you wouldn't have any excuse at all fer bein' town marshal. You--"

  "That'll do now," interrupted Anderson severely. "You have said themvery words to me a thousand times, Alf Reesling, and--Who's that comingout of the post office?"

  The group gradually turned to look up the street. Tinkletown is a slowplace. Its inhabitants do everything with a deliberation that suggeststhe profoundest ennui. For example, a gentleman of Tinkletown rarelyraised his hat on meeting a lady. He invariably started to do so, but asthe ladies of the place were in the habit of moving with more celeritythan the gentlemen, he failed on most occasions to complete theundertaking. What's the sense of takin' your hat off to a woman, hewould argue, if she's already got past you? So far as anybody knew,there wasn't a woman in town with an eye in the back of her head.

  "Looks like a stranger," said Newt Spratt.

  "It certainly does," agreed Anderson. "Yes, I'm right," he added aninstant later.

  The object of interest was crossing the street in the direction of theGrand View Hotel. The group watched him with mild interest. I
n front ofthe two-story frame building that seemed to stagger, or at least toshrink, under the weight of its own importance, the stranger--aman--paused to glance at one of the placards heralding the misfortuneand at the same time the far from parsimonious regard of the lady whohad been despoiled of a fashionable bulldog. Having perused thesingularly comprehensive notice, he deliberately tore it down, folded itwith some care, and stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Then he enteredthe Grand View Hotel.

  "Well, I'll be ding-blasted!" exclaimed Marshal Crow.

  Mr. Reesling's animosity gave way to civic pride. "By jingo, Anderson,"he cried, "if you want any help arrestin' that scoundrel, call on me!Comin' around here defacin' things like that--he ought to go to jail."

  Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer, voiced a time-tried but fruitlesscriticism. "If you'd paste 'em up instead of tackin' 'em up, peoplecouldn't take 'em down like that. I've told you--"

  "If you got any complaints to make about me, Elmer, you'd better make'em to the town board and not to Alf Reesling and Newt Spratt,"interrupted Marshal Crow testily. "Besides I do paste 'em up when I runout of tacks."

  He started off toward the Grand View, his head erect, his whiskersbristling with indignation.

  "Shall we go with you, Anderson?" inquired Alf.

  "'Tain't necessary," replied the Marshal, "but you might go over andwait for me in front of the hotel."

  "If you need any help, just holler," said Alf.

  Entering the office of the Grand View Hotel, Marshal Crow looked aroundfor the despoiler. Save for the presence of the proprietress, Mrs.Bloomer, relict of the founder of the hostelry, the room was quiteempty. Mrs. Bloomer, however, filled it rather snugly. She was a largeperson, and she had a cold in the head which made her feel even larger.She was now engaged in sweeping the floor.

  "Mornin', Jennie," was Anderson's greeting. "Where's the feller that'sstoppin' here?"

  Mrs. Bloomer had the sniffles. "He's gone up to his room," she said.Then after another sniffle: "Why?"

  "I want to see him."

  "Well his room's at the head of the stairs, to your right."

  Anderson twisted his whiskers in momentary perplexity.

  "Might be better if you asked him to come down."

  "Ask him yourself," she said. "I don't want to see him."

  Marshal Crow made a mental reservation to yank Mrs. Bloomer up beforeJustice Robb the next time she left the garbage can standing on thesidewalk overnight.

  He hesitated about going up to the guest's bedroom. It wasn't quite thelegal thing to do. The more he thought of it, the longer he hesitated.In fact, while he was about it, he thought he would draw a chair up tothe big sheet-iron stove and sit down.

  "Won't you take off your overcoat and goloshes?" inquired the landlady,but in a far from hospitable manner.

  "How long has this feller been here?" demanded Anderson, moving his leftfoot a little, but not quite far enough to avoid the broom.

  "Last night."

  "Um-m! What's his name and where's he from?"

  "Go and look at the register, and then you'll know as much as I do. It'sa public register. Nothing secret about it."

  Anderson got up suddenly. "I guess I'll go look while you're sweepin'around here."

  The register on the little counter in the corner revealed the name of asingle arrival below the flowing Spencerian hand of Willie Spence, theclerk, head waiter, porter and bell-boy of the Grand View Hotel. Willie,because of his proficiency as a chirographer, always wrote the date linein the register. He was strong on flourishes, but somewhat feeble inspelling. Any one with half an eye could see that there was somethingwrong with a date line that read: "Febury 25nd 1919." The lone guest'sname, written in a tight "running" hand with total disregard for theelementary formation of letters, might have been almost anything thatoccupied less than two inches of space. Even his place of residence wasa matter of doubt.

  The Marshal put on his spectacles and studied the signature. As far ashe could make out, the man's name was something like "WinnumnnMillmmmln." It was a name that baffled him. The longer he studied it,the worse it became.

  "Seems to me, Jennie, if I was runnin' this hotel, I'd have WillieSpence register for the guests, and save 'em the trouble."

  "Can't you make it out?"

  "Course I can," he replied promptly. "It's as plain as day to me, butI'll bet you a good cigar you can't make it out."

  She fell into the trap. "All right, I take you up. It's Mr. & Mrs.George F. Fox."

  Mr. Crow stared at her for a second or two. Then he recovered himself."You're right," he said. "What kind of a cigar do you smoke, Jennie?"

  As he had feared, she promptly named the highest-priced cigar she had instock, a three-for-a-quarter brand, and then coolly announced that ifhe'd leave a dime on the show case, she'd get it.

  "Got his wife with him, I see," remarked Anderson.

  "Yep," said Mrs. Bloomer.

  "What's his business?"

  "I asked him last night," said she, pausing in her work to fix Andersonwith a rather penetrating look. "He said he was a trained elephant."

  "A--a what?"

  "A trained elephant."

  "You don't say so!"

  "And his wife is a snake-charmer," she added uneasily.

  Anderson blinked rapidly. "Well, of all the--But what on earth's hedoing here in Tinkletown?"

  "I didn't ask any more questions after that," said she, with a furtiveglance up the stairway. "I'd give a good deal to know what they've gotin them big black valises they brought with 'em. Three times as big asregular valises, with brass trimmin's. I hope she aint got any reptilesin 'em."

  Marshal Crow took that instant to consult the office clock. "By ginger!"he exclaimed, with some sprightliness. "I got to be movin' along. I'mfollerin' up a clue in that dog case."

  Mrs. Bloomer's anxious gaze was bent on a dark corner back of thestairway.

  "I do hope, if she _has_ got any snakes in them valises, she won't let'em get loose and go crawlin' all over the place. I----"

  Mr. Crow sent a quick, searching look about the office as he strodetoward the door.

  "Ain't you going up to his room?" inquired Mrs. Bloomer.

  "Not just now," replied Anderson, and closed the door quickly behindhim.

  Alf Reesling and his companions were waiting impatiently on thesidewalk. They were actively disappointed when the Marshal emergedempty-handed.

  "Was he too much fer you?" was Alf's scathing inquiry.

  "How many times have I got to tell you, Alf, that I'm able to deducethese cases without your assistance? Now, this is a big case, and youleave it to me to handle. When I get ready to act, you'll hear somethingthat will make your hair stand on end. Hold on, Newt! Don't ask anyquestions. Don't----"

  "I wasn't going to ask any questions," snapped Newt. "I was going totell you something."

  "You was, eh? Well, what was you going to tell me?"

  "Mort Fryback went by here a couple of minutes ago an' he says for youto come into his store right away."

  Anderson frowned. "I bet he's confessed."

  "Who? Him? What's he got to confess?" demanded Alf.

  "Never mind, never mind," said the Marshal quickly. "I'll step in andsee him now."

  Leaving his "reserves" standing in front of the Grand View, Mr. Crowhurried into Fryback's hardware store.

  Mort was pacing--or, strictly speaking, stumping--back and forth behindthe cutlery counter. His brow was corrugated with anxiety. The instanthe saw the Marshal he uttered an exclamation that might have beenconstrued as either relief, dismay or wrath. It was, as a matter offact, inarticulate and therefore extremely difficult to classify.Anderson, however, deduced it as dismay. Mr. Fryback came out frombehind the counter, stumped over to the stove, in which there was acrackling fire and, after opening the isinglass door, squirted amouthful of tobacco juice upon the coals. Whereupon it became possiblefor him to articulate.

  "I been lookin' everywhere fer you," said he, somewhat breathle
ssly."Where you been?"

  "'Tendin' to business," retorted Anderson. "What's the matter?"

  Mr. Fryback took the precaution to ascertain that there were nolisteners in the store. "Somebody--some woman, you c'n bet on that--toldmy wife last night that I poisoned old Mike."

  "Well, you did, didn't you?"

  "Of course I did. That is, I hired Charlie Brubaker to do it. But shesays I did it with my own hands, and--my gosh, Anderson, I never wentthrough such a night in my life as last night." He mopped his brow."You'd think I was a murderer. Course, I denied it. I swore he wasn'tdead, and that I'd increase the reward to a hundred dollars just to showher. What I want you to do, right away, is to have a new set of billsprinted, offerin' a hundred dollars reward for that dog, instead ofthree. It's the only chance I've got of ever being able to live in myown house again."

  The Marshal eyed him reflectively. "If you could get her to agree to letyou offer the reward for Mike, dead or alive--"

  "She wants him alive, and no other way."

  "Can't you buy her off?"

  Mr. Fryback groaned. "I could--" he began dismally, and then fell tochewing with great vigour.

  "What would it cost?" inquired Anderson, feelingly.

  "An automobile," replied Mr. Fryback, after opening and closing thestove-door once more. "It would be cheaper, you see, to offer a hundreddollars for Mike," he explained, ingenuously.

  "It certainly would," agreed the Marshal, "seein' as you wouldn't haveto pay fer anything except the printin' of the notices. If you wanted toshow how much you think of your wife, and how anxious you are to pleaseher, you could go as high as a thousand dollars, Mort."

  "Would you, reely, Anderson?"

  "Sure. She could lord it over all these women--includin' my wife--who'vebeen sayin' Mike wasn't worth fifty cents and didn't have a pedigree anylonger than his tail. Why, if she wanted to go on lyin' about the valueof that old dog, she could tell people she had been offered a thousanddollars for Marmyduke by a well-known dog collector in New York."

  "That _might_ please her," reflected Mort. "Course, this thing hasalready cost me quite a lot of money, outside the printin'. I've had togive Bill Kepsal a receipt in full fer what he owes me, and that youngBrubaker's been in twice to price base-burner stoves. He says if he c'nget a good one fer ten dollars he'll take it, and his heart seems to beset on that seventy-dollar Regal over yonder. I'm in an awful fix,Anderson."

  "Well, you can't say I didn't advise you to let Mike die a naturaldeath."

  "I wish to goodness I had," lamented Mort.

  The door opened at that juncture, and in walked a man and a woman. Theformer was carrying a square black "valise," inadequately described byMrs. Bloomer as twice the natural size. As a matter of fact, it was morelike a half-grown trunk, to quote no less an authority than the townmarshal.

  The proprietor of the hardware store was, at a glance, qualified to passan opinion on the personal appearance of the two strangers. Hiscompanion's attention, however, was devoted so earnestly to the bigblack "valise," that he couldn't have told, for the life of him, whetherthe customers were young or old, black or white. His fascinated gaze wasriveted upon the object the man deposited carefully on the floor nearthe door.

  "You are a locksmith, I perceive," remarked the strange man, addressingMort. "I'd like to have you see if you can open this box for me. We'velost or mislaid the key."

  "What fer sort of a lock is it?" asked Mort, approaching.

  "Hold on, Mort!" called out Mr. Crow. "Don't monkey with that trunk."

  _"Hold on, Mort!" called out Mr. Crow. "Don't monkey withthat trunk"_]

  The two strangers turned on him.

  "Well, who the deuce have we here?" said the man, with some acerbity.

  "Oh, what a nice old policeman!" cried the lady, fixing the Marshal witha pair of intensely blue eyes. Mr. Crow looked at her in amazement.Could any one as pretty, as dainty and as refined-looking as she beengaged in the awful business of charming snakes?

  "Before we go any further, mister, I've got to know what's inside thatbox," said Anderson firmly.

  "What's the matter with you?" demanded the other. "There's nothing in itthat need excite the law, my good man."

  "This is our town marshal, Anderson Crow," explained Mort Fryback.

  "I might have known it," said the stranger. "I've heard a good dealabout Mr. Crow. Well, what's the answer?"

  "That's what I want to know," snapped Anderson. "What is the answer?What kind are they? And how many have you got?"

  The stranger was on the point of exploding with indignation when hisfair companion intervened.

  "Leave it to me, George dear. You always fly into such a temper. Ifyou'd only let me attend to the small things, while you look out forthe big ones, we'd get along so much better. Wouldn't we, Mr. Crow?"

  She appealed to Mr. Crow so abruptly and so sweetly that he said heguessed so before he could check himself.

  "If you will stay here until we find a key that will fit, Mr. Crow, youwill see with your own eyes what will make them pop out of your head."

  "Mort, you keep away from that box, I say!" commanded Anderson, now sureof his ground. "Do you want to get bit?"

  "Oh, dear me, they won't bite you!" cried the young lady. "I promise youthey are most amiable. I have been handling them for several weeksand--"

  Her husband interrupted her. He revealed symptoms of increasingannoyance.

  "See here, let's get busy and open this thing. They've got to be fed,you know,--and it's all damned poppycock discussing the matter anylonger."

  Marshal Crow held up his hand as if stopping traffic in Main Street.

  "You are in the presence of the law, Mr. Wolf," he began. The youngwoman giggled. He glared at her.

  "My name is Fox," said the young man, curtly.

  "That don't make any difference," retorted the Marshal. "Mine's Crow,and I represent the law. You--"

  "How delicious!" said Mrs. Fox. "So like that cunning poem of GuyWetmore Carryl's. You know it, of course, Mr. Crow?"

  She declaimed:

  "'I blush to add that when the bird Took in the situation He said one brief, emphatic word, Unfit for publication. The fox was greatly startled, but He only sighed and answered "tut"'"

  "Don't be silly, Bess," said her husband. "This is no time to recitepoetry."

  "I don't see any sense in it, anyhow," said Marshal Crow.

  Mr. Fryback emerged from behind the cutlery counter, whither he hadrepaired in some haste when it became evident that Mrs. Fox was likelyto remain for some time. He was wiping his lips with the back of hishand, and what very recently might have been mistaken for a prodigiousswelling in his cheek had strangely subsided.

  "Why shouldn't I fit a key to that lock, Andy?" he demanded, ratherhotly. "What right have you got to interfere with my business?"

  The Marshal's lips parted to utter a sharp retort, but the words failedto issue. Young Mrs. Fox suddenly stooped over and peered intently atseveral heretofore unnoticed holes at one end of the black box. Theseholes, about an inch in diameter, formed a horizontal row. Much to Mr.Crow's alarm, the young lady pulled off her glove and stuck a fingerinto one of the little apertures and apparently wriggled it without fearor trepidation. Almost instantly there was an ominous rustling insidethe box. Withdrawing her finger, she called out:

  "Please look!"

  The invitation was unnecessary. Mr. Crow was looking for all he wasworth.

  "Good gracious, ma'am!" he gasped. "Don't stir 'em up like that. Nextthing they'll crawl out of them holes and--"

  "Why, you poor old goose!" she said, but not disrespectfully. "They'remuch too large to crawl through these holes. I wish I could catch holdof one of their tails and--Look!" She held her finger close to the holeand a long, thin black tongue darted through and began to writhe aboutin a most malevolent manner.

  "For gosh sake!" exclaimed the Marshal, retreating a couple of steps.This sudden action on his part brought a venomou
s oath from Mr. Fryback,and an instant apology as well.

  "You'd cuss, too," explained the blasphemer to the lady, "if a clumsyelephant, stepped on the only good foot you've got."

  "If you think I'm the one that claims to be an elephant--" beganAnderson.

  "Cootchy, cootchy, cootchy," cooed the lady, addressing the row ofholes. Whereupon the rustling in the interior of the devilish boxincreased to a turmoil. The two citizens of Tinkletown stared wide-eyedat the three little circles, and their eyes grew wider as they saw thatone of them was now completely stopped up by a dark, ugly object thatbore resemblance to nothing they had ever seen before--a wet, shinything that was alive and quivering.

  The unnatural Mrs. Fox promptly poked her finger through the hole andrubbed the snout of what must have been a full-sized boa-constrictor.Instantly to their horror, the black obstruction, went through a processof splitting, and several deadly fangs were revealed. Once more thewriggling black tongue darted out to caress the lady's unprotectedfinger.

  "Oh, you darling!" cried the lady. "Please, Mr. Locksmith, see if youcan't find a key that will fit the lock."

  Marshal Crow dragged his friend toward the door.

  "Did you see it?" he whispered hoarsely.

  Before Mort could answer, the door flew open and in rushed Mrs. Bloomer,bareheaded and in a great state of agitation.

  "For heaven's sake, Anderson, hurry up and come with me," she cried."Bring a pistol--and, Mort, you get a couple of axes and a pitchfork ortwo. My God, something awful is loose in one of them rooms upstairs!The most terrible racket is going on in there. I--Oh, there you are!"She caught sight of her lodgers. "Arrest them, Anderson! Lock them up atonce. They're dangerous people. They oughtn't to be running at large.Oh, that awful thing! It sounds like it was twenty feet long, and it'sthrashing all over the room. Oh, my God! What a scare I've had! Oh, youneedn't look at me innocent like that, you two. You're in for it, or myname ain't Jennie Bloomer. Call a posse, Anderson, and surround thehotel. Thank Heaven, the door of that room is locked, but goodness knowshow soon it will be crawlin' through the transom."

  At that instant she discovered that her skirt was almost touching thebig black box on the floor. Emitting a sharp squeal, she gave anelephantine leap to the shelter of Anderson's arms, almost bowling himover.

  "God knows what she's got in that valise," she whimpered.

  Mr. Fox put on an exceedingly bold front. Realizing that he wascornered, he adopted a lightly boastful air.

  "What we've got in this valise, as you call it, madam, is worth morethan your whole blamed hotel."

  "Keep away from that valise," warned Anderson Crow, addressing Mr. Fox."Give me time to think. Somethin's got to be done, and right away. Ican't take any chances of these terrible things gettin' loose an'drivin' our citizens out of town."

  "The first thing you got to do, Anderson Crow," shouted Mrs. Bloomer,"is to capture the reptile that's loose in my hotel. That's what you gotto do." She turned upon the pretty Mrs. Fox. "Snake charmer! That's anice business for a woman to be in. Don't come near me."

  "I am not thinking of coming near you, you old rip!" said Mrs. Fox,losing her temper in a very womanly fashion.

  "None o' that, now--none o' that," warned the town marshal. "Keep acivil tongue in your head, young woman."

  "Why, you long-whiskered old--" began the lady, but her husband sparedthe Marshal a whirlwind of revelations by taking her arm and leading herto the rear of the store, where for some minutes they were in close andearnest conference.

  "The thing to do," said Mort Fryback, "is to take this box down to thecrick an' drop it in, all locked and everything. That will put an end tothe cussed things, better'n any other way I know."

  A furious commotion took place inside the box, preventing furtherdiscussion on the part of the retreating observers. It was as if a dozenhuge and powerful serpents were exerting every effort to escape.

  The voice of Mrs. Fox, clear as a bell, assailed them from behind.

  "They're hungry, poor things," she cried. "Perfectly ravenous."

  "That settles it," said Marshal Crow. "We've got to git rid of 'em if wehave to set fire to your store, Mort. They're terrible when they haven'tbeen fed fer a long time. Swaller pigs an' sheep--_and_ children whole,they say."

  Mr. Fox approached. He was now very polite and ingratiating.

  "Permit me," he observed, "to offer a solution. If you will give me abunch of keys, my friend, I will remove the case to my room and openit--if possible. No harm will come to anybody, and in one hour or so, mywife and I will be on our way. My automobile is in your local garage,Mr. Hawk, and we can be ready to start as soon as we have fed and airedthe--er--shall we say contents?"

  "You arrest him, Anderson," cried Mrs. Bloomer. "Hold him till Iestimate the damage that's been done to my property. He's got to pay ferthat before he can get out of this town."

  "I guess you'd better step over to the calaboose with me, mister," saidAnderson firmly. "And you too, ma'am. This here lady prefers chargesagainst you, an' it's my duty to--"

  "What is the charge, madam?" demanded Mr. Fox, lighting a cigarette.

  "Never mind," said the Marshal; "we'll attend to that later."

  Mr. Fryback put in a word at this point. "Yes, but who's going to takecharge of this here box? It can't stay here in my place. First thing youknow the derned things will gnaw a hole in the side and git out."

  "If it is not too far, Mr. Officer, I should be happy to carry the boxover to the lock-up--unless, of course, some one else will volunteer. Isee quite a number of citizens looking in through the window. Doubtlesssome of them might--"

  "How long after a man's been on a bad spree is he likely to think hesees snakes?" demanded Anderson, struck with an idea.

  "The time varies," replied Mr. Fox, rather startled.

  "Alf ain't been tight in a good many years," mused the Marshal. "I guessit would be safe to let him carry 'em. Don't you think so, Mort?"

  "Him and Newt Spratt," said Mort. "Newt's always braggin' about notbeing afraid of anything."

  "Well, perhaps it would be just as well not to tell 'em what's in thishere box," said Anderson. He turned to the pair of strangers. "Only theyain't going to carry it to the calaboose. They're going to carry it tothe crick, an' throw it in."

  The young woman uttered a cry of dismay, and her husband utteredsomething distinctly out of place, for Mrs. Bloomer again told him heought to be ashamed of himself.

  After a few whispered words in the ear of the distracted young woman,Mr. Fox turned to the others.

  "I'll tell you what we'll do, gentlemen," said he, and then added, witha polite bow to the corpulent Mrs. Bloomer, "and ladies. Mrs. Fox and Ihad planned giving a little exhibition at the hotel, but that now seemsto be out of the question. Kindly bear in mind that we are not visitingyour little city on pleasure bent. We are here strictly for business. Asa rule we do not make one-night stands. But we have been attracted toyour charming city almost against our will--although, I may add, it wasat the earnest invitation of one of your most important denizens--Ishould say citizens. You will agree, I am sure, that it would hardly payus to visit a place like this unless we were reasonably assured ofsomething in the way of pecuniary benefits. You may not know it,gentlemen, but we have had a bona-fide offer of one hundred dollars--andthat isn't to be sneezed at, is it? We--Please bear with me, Mr. Hawk. Ishall not detain you--"

  "My name is Mr. Crow," snapped Anderson.

  "Sorry," apologized Fox. "I fear I confused you with the celebratedHawkshaw, the detective."

  Mr. Crow turned purple.

  "That's what Harry Squires, the reporter on the _Banner_, calls him mostof the time," volunteered Mort Fryback. "That, an' Shellback Holmes."

  "Such is fame," said Mr. Fox agreeably. "Well, to get right down tocases, Mrs. Fox and I propose that you allow us to give our littleexhibition in the Town Hall,--if you have one--and--"

  "Not much!" roared Anderson. "I've had enough of this talk. I'm going tot
ake action at once." He flung open the front door and addressed thegroup in front of the store, now increased to nearly a score, includingseveral scattered women and children--and Ed Higgins' dog. "I call onall you men to assist me in surrounding the Grand View Hotel. There isdangerous work ahead, and I want only the bravest,--wait a second, Newt,don't go away,--and most determined men in town to volunteer. Here,Mort, you hand out some axes, an' pitchforks, an' crowbars, an'--"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, George," cried Mrs. Fox frantically, "don't letthem do it. Stop them!"

  But the stranger motioned for her to be silent.

  * * * * *

  Some time was spent in explaining the situation to the posse, and instationing a group of the hardiest men beneath certain windows of thesecond floor back. During this arrangement of forces, three of thebravest men in Tinkletown had to go to the post office for some veryimportant letters, and two more rushed over to see that they came back.

  Anderson Crow marshalled a dozen or more able-bodied conscripts in MainStreet, preparatory to a frontal attack on the suite at the head of thestairway. He had commandeered a double-barreled shotgun belonging toBill Kepsal, and with this he proposed to "shoot the daylights" out ofthe serpent through the transom if it hadn't crawled under the bed wherehe couldn't "get a bead on it."

  In the meantime, Mr. Fox had carried the big black box out of Fryback'sstore, and his wife was now standing guard over it on the porch of theGrand View Hotel.

  _His wife was now standing guard over it on the porch ofthe Grand View Hotel_]

  Marshal Crow was issuing commands right and left, and the squad,augmented by a step-ladder from the hardware shop, was about to enterthe hotel, when Mrs. Fox uttered an excited little shriek, and thenthese desolating words:

  "Oh, George, I've found it! I've got the key. It was away down in mymuff."

  Before any action could be taken to restrain the impetuous young woman,she was inserting the key in the lock!

  Those nearest her collided violently with those farther away, and inless time than it takes to mention it, there was no one within a radiusof fifty feet--except a new arrival on the scene.

  To the intense horror of Mort Fryback, his wife emerged from the GrandView Hotel and entered the danger zone.

  "Hey, Maude!" he bellowed. "Keep away from that! For the love of--" Heclapped his hand over his eyes. Mrs. Fryback had reached the side ofthe eager Mrs. Fox just as that lady lifted the lid of the box.

  Now, Mrs. Fryback was Mort's third wife; according to longevitystatistics, she was much too young to die. As a matter of fact, she waslittle more than a bride. That probably accounts for the brand-new minkcoat and muff she was sporting. Moreover, it accounts for Mort'ssurprising mendacity and even more amazing humility in relation to thetaking-off of Mike. No doubt in similar circumstances, he would havetold his second wife, who died when she was pretty well along in years,that he'd show her who was boss in his home, and if she didn't like whathe did to Mike, she could lump it. But, alas, between a vacillatingyoung wife who has you under her thumb and a constant old one who hasbeen thoroughly squashed under yours for a great many years, there is aworld of difference.

  Others who stared in horror at the picture on the porch, groaned audiblyas young Mrs. Fox looked up into the face of the unsuspecting victim andsmiled. Thus encouraged, young Mrs. Fryback, disdaining death, smiled inreturn and stooped over to look into the depths of that unspeakable box.Instead of starting back in alarm, she uttered a shrill little cry ofdelight, and dropping to her knees plunged both hands into the nest ofwriggling horrors!

  Lucius Fry, who had hastily set up the step-ladder, and was nowbalancing himself somewhat precariously at the top of it, let out alugubrious howl.

  "She's a goner!" he announced.

  The two young women had their heads close together and were conversing.Marshal Crow, armed with the double barreled shotgun, began a cautiouscircuitous advance, his finger on the trigger.

  He stopped short when about twenty feet from the women, andspasmodically pulled the trigger. There is no telling what might havehappened if the gun had been loaded.

  Mr. Fox had deliberately overturned the box and--out scampered threesprightly Boston terrier puppies!

  Ten minutes later all but one of Mort Fryback's farming utensils wereback in stock. The missing implement, a hatchet, was furtively on itsway to the barber-shop of one Ebenezer January, coloured.

  Mr. and Mrs. Fryback, Marshal Crow and the amiable Foxes discussed the"points" of the frolicsome puppies in the rear of the hardware store.

  "I just adore this one, Mrs. Fox," said Mrs. Fryback, pointing to arugged little rascal who was patiently gnawing at Mr. Fryback's peg-leg."Do you really recommend him as the best of the lot, Mr. Fox?" sheinquired, turning her shining eyes upon the gentleman.

  "Absolutely," said Mr. Fox. "Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Crow?"

  "Ab-so-lutely," said Anderson.

  "Then I'll take him," said Mort's wife, and Mort not only sighed butwiped a fine coat of moisture from his brow. "One hundred dollars is thevery least you will take?"

  "The very least, Mrs. Fryback. He is a thoroughbred, you know. Mykennels are famous, as you doubtless noted in my advertisement in _Townand Country_--and I can personally guarantee every pup that comes out ofthem. In your letter to me, Mrs. Fryback, you stated that only the bestI had on hand would be considered. The mother of these puppies has apedigree a yard long, and the father, as I mentioned before, is Stubbsthe Twelfth. Nothing more need be said. The mother, Bonnie Bridget, youhave just seen. Stubbs the Twelfth belongs to a millionaire in Albany.Allow me to congratulate you, madam,"--extending his hand,--"on havingsecured one of the finest dogs in America. And you also, Mr. Fryback, onhaving a wife who is such a discriminating judge of thoroughbreds."

  Mr. Fryback looked a trifle startled, but said nothing.

  "If you ever come to our town, Mr. Crow, I hope you will look us up,"broke in Mr. Fox. "Our place is about two miles out in the country. Bythe way, has Mrs. Crow a good dog--I mean one that she can be proudof?"

  "She has a thoroughbred setter," said Marshal Crow, compressing hislips.

  "A hundred dollars is a lot of money fer a dog," murmured Mr. Fryback.He met his wife's eye for a second and then added: "But, of course, mywife has just lost one that was worth a thousand dollars, so--I guess itain't so much, after all."

  "Marmaduke was a really wonderful dog, Mrs. Fox," vouchsafed Mort'swife, assuming a sad and pensive expression.

  "I am sure he must have been," said Mrs. Fox.

  "One hundred dollars is very cheap, sir, for a thoroughbred Bostonterrier in these days," said Mr. Fox. "Isn't that so, Mr. Crow?"

  "Cheap as dirt," said Anderson.

  "Mortimer, will you please give Mr. Fox the money?" said Mrs. Fryback."And, by the way, Mr. Crow, I hope you take down all those rewardnotices at once. I wouldn't know what to do with Marmaduke now, even ifsome one did bring him back to me."

  "I know what I'd order you to do with him," said Anderson, meetingMort's melancholy gaze at last.

  "What, may I inquire?"

  "I'd order you to bury him," said the town marshal, speaking in hiscapacity as chairman of the Board of Health.

  Mrs. Fryback looked at him steadily for a second or two, and then slowlyclosed an eye.