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"Of course," breathed Anderson. "Well, my friend wants to reform. All he asks is a slice of the reward. If we capture the gang, we can afford to give him a thousand or so, can't we?" "Of course," was the dignified response. "Here's his letter to me. I'll read it to you." In the gathering dusk Gregory read the letter to the marshal of Tinkletown.
In front of the general store and post-office at Tinkletown there was a sign-post, on which Anderson Crow had painted these words: "No tramps or Live Stock Allowed on these Streets. By order of A. CROW, Marshal." The live stock disregarded the command, but the tramp took warning.
The summer turned steaming hot in the lowlands about Tinkletown, but in the great hills across the river the air was cool, bright, and invigorating. People began to hurry to their country homes from the distant cities. Before the month was old, a score or more of beautiful places were opened and filled with the sons and daughters of the rich.
Perhaps she was more highly entertained by the manner in which Tinkletown femininity paired its venom with masculine admiration. "Mornin', Miss Banks," was Anderson's greeting as he stamped noisily into the room. He forgot that he had said good-morning to her when she stopped in to see Rosalie on her way to the schoolhouse.
Poor old Anderson's confidence in himself was only exceeded by his great love for her. At last June smiled upon Rosalie and she was off for Boston. Her gowns were from Albany and her happiness from heaven according to a reverential Tinkletown impression.
Finally he fell asleep in the chair, his last speech being to the effect that he was going home early in the morning if he had to drag himself every foot of the way. Plainly, 'Rast had forgotten Miss Banks in the sudden revival of affection for Rosalie Gray. The course of true love did not run smoothly in Tinkletown. The searchers straggled in empty handed.
"Now, you see," he said, at the close of the astounding epistle, "this means that if we observe strict secrecy, we may have the game in our hands. No one must hear a word of this. They may have spies right here in Tinkletown. We can succeed only by keeping our mouths sealed." "Tighter'n beeswax," promised Anderson Crow.
The leading members of Boothby's All Star Company "put up" at the Inn, which was so humble that it staggered beneath this unaccustomed weight of dignity. The Inn was glorified. All Tinkletown looked upon the despised old "eating house" with a reverence that was not reluctant.
It was Friday night, and there would be no session until the following Monday. Mr. Crow was very sleepy for a detective. He snored all the way home. The next morning two farmers drove madly into Tinkletown with the astounding news that some one had been murdered at schoolhouse No. 5. In passing the place soon after daybreak they had noticed blood on the snow at the roadside.
"Queer old chap, isn't he?" observed Jackie, and immediately forgot him as they strolled onward. That evening Tinkletown swarmed with strangers. The weather was fine, and scores of the summer dwellers in the hills across the river came over to see the performance, as the advance agent had predicted. Bluff Top Hotel sent a large delegation of people seeking the variety of life.
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