The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  “But, doggone it, cain’t you see—I mean feel—that I ain’t got hardly any clothes on? I’d ketch my death o’ cold, an’ besides—”

  “Well, I ain’t got as much on as you have. You got socks on an’—”

  “But supposin’ it’s a woman,” protested he. “You wouldn’t want a woman to see me lookin’ like this, would you? Go ahead an’—”

  “I suppose you’d like to have a man see me like this. I ain’t used to receivin’ men in—but, say, whoever it was, is gone. Didn’t you hear the steps? Open the door, Anderson. See what it is.”

  And so, after much urging, Anderson Crow unbolted his front door and turned the knob. The wind did the rest. It almost blew the door off its hinges, carrying Mr. and Mrs. Crow back against the wall. A gale of snow swept over them.

  “Gee!” gasped Anderson, crimping his toes. Mrs. Crow was peering under his arm.

  “Look there!” she cried. Close to the door a large bundle was lying.

  “A present from some one!” speculated Mr. Crow; but some seconds passed before he stooped to pick it up. “Funny time fer Santy to be callin’ ’round. Wonder if he thinks it’s next Christmas.”

  “Be careful, Anderson; mebby it’s an infernal machine!” cried his wife.

  “Well, it’s loaded, ’y ginger,” he grunted as straightened up in the face of the gale. “Shut the door, Eva! Cain’t you see it’s snowin’?”

  “I’ll bet it was Joe Ramsey leavin’ a sack o’ hickor’ nuts fer us,” she said eagerly, slamming the door.

  “You better bolt the door. He might change his mind an’ come back fer ’em,” observed her husband. “It don’t feel like hickor’ nuts. Why, Eva, it’s a baskit—a reg’lar clothes baskit. What in thunder do—”

  “Let’s get a light out by the kitchen fire. It’s too cold in here.”

  Together they sped to the kitchen with the mysterious offering from the blizzard. There was a fire in the stove, which Anderson replenished, while Eva began to remove the blankets and packing from the basket, which she had placed on the hearth. Anderson looked on eagerly.

  “Lord!” fell from the lips of both as the contents of the basket were exposed to their gaze.

  A baby, alive and warm, lay packed in the blankets, sound asleep and happy. For an interminable length of time the Crows, en dishabille, stood and gazed open-mouthed and awed at the little stranger. Ten minutes later, after the ejaculations and surmises, after the tears and expletives, after the whole house had been aroused, Anderson Crow was plunging amiably but aimlessly through the snowstorm in search of the heartless wretch who had deposited the infant on his doorstep. His top boots scuttled up and down the street, through yards and barn lots for an hour, but despite the fact that he carried his dark lantern and trailed like an Indian bloodhound, he found no trace of the wanton visitor. In the meantime, Mrs. Crow, assisted by the entire family, had stowed the infant, a six-weeks-old girl, into a warm bed, ministering to the best of her ability to its meagre but vociferous wants. There was no more sleep in the Crow establishment that night. The head of the house roused a half dozen neighbours from their beds to tell them of the astounding occurrence, with the perfectly natural result that one and all hurried over to see the baby and to hear the particulars.

  Early next morning Tinkletown wagged with an excitement so violent that it threatened to end in a municipal convulsion. Anderson Crow’s home was besieged. The snow in his front yard was packed to an icy consistency by the myriad of footprints that fell upon it; the interior of the house was “tracked” with mud and slush and three window panes were broken by the noses of curious but unwelcome spectators. Altogether, it was a sensation unequalled in the history of the village. Through it all the baby blinked and wept and cooed in perfect peace, guarded by Mrs. Crow and the faithful progeny who had been left by the stork, and not by a mysterious stranger.

  The missionary societies wanted to do something heroic, but Mrs. Crow headed them off; the sewing circle got ready to take charge of affairs, but Mrs. Crow punctured the project; figuratively, the churches ached for a chance to handle the infant, but Mrs. Crow stood between. And all Tinkletown called upon Anderson Crow to solve the mystery before it was a day older.

  “It’s purty hard to solve a mystery that’s got six weeks’ start o’ me,” said Anderson despairingly, “but I’ll try, you bet. The doggone thing’s got a parent or two somewhere in the universe, an’ I’ll locate ’em er explode somethin’. I’ve got a private opinion about it myself.”

  Whatever this private opinion might have been, it was not divulged. Possibly something in connection with it might have accounted for the temporary annoyance felt by nearly every respectable woman in Tinkletown. The marshal eyed each and every one of them, irrespective of position, condition or age, with a gleam so accusing that the Godliest of them flushed and then turned cold. So knowing were these equitable looks that before night every woman in the village was constrained to believe the worst of her neighbour, and almost as ready to look with suspicion upon herself.

  One thing was certain—business was at a standstill in Tinkletown. The old men forgot their chess and checker games at the corner store; young men neglected their love affairs; women forgot to talk about each other; children froze their ears rather than miss any of the talk that went about the wintry streets; everybody was asking the question, “Whose baby is it?”

  But the greatest sensation of all came late in the day when Mrs. Crow, in going over the garments worn by the babe, found a note addressed to Anderson Crow. It was stitched to the baby’s dress, and proved beyond question that the strange visitor of the night before had selected not only the house, but the individual. The note was to the point. It said:

  “February 18, 1883.

  “ANDERSON CROW: To your good and merciful care an unhappy creature consigns this helpless though well-beloved babe. All the world knows you to be a tender, loving, unselfish man and father. The writer humbly, prayerfully implores you to care for this babe as you would for one of your own. It is best that her origin be kept a secret. Care for her, cherish her as your own, and at the end of each year the sum of a thousand dollars will be paid to you as long as she lives in your household as a member thereof. Do not seek to find her parents. It would be a fool’s errand. May God bless you and yours, and may God care for and protect Rosalie—the name she shall bear.”

  Obviously, there was no signature and absolutely no clew to the identity of the writer Two telegraph line repairers who had been working near Crow’s house during the night, repairing damage done by the blizzard, gave out the news that they had seen a cloaked and mysterious-looking woman standing near the Methodist Church just before midnight, evidently disregarding the rage of the storm. The sight was so unusual that the men paused and gazed at her for several minutes. One of them was about to approach her when she turned and fled down the side street near by.

  “Was she carryin’ a big bundle?” asked Anderson Crow.

  The men replied in the negative.

  “Then she couldn’t have been the party wanted. The one we’re after certainly had a big bundle.”

  “But, Mr. Crow, isn’t it possible that these men saw her after she left the basket at—” began the Presbyterian minister.

  “That ain’t the way I deduce it,” observed the town detective tartly. “In the first place, she wouldn’t ’a’ been standin’ ’round like that if the job was over, would she? Wouldn’t she ’a’ been streakin’ out fer home? ’Course she would.”

  “She may have paused near the church to see whether you took the child in,” persisted the divine.

  “But she couldn’t have saw my porch from the back end of the church.”

  “Nobody said she was standing back of the church,” said the lineman.

  “What’s that? You don’t mean it?” cried Anderson, pulling out of a difficulty bravely. “That makes all the difference in the world. Why didn’t you say she was in front of the church? Cain’t you see we’ve wa
sted time here jest because you didn’t have sense ’nough to—”

  “Anybody ought to know it ’thout being told, you old Rube,” growled the lineman, who was from Boggs City.

  “Here, now, sir, that will do you! I won’t ’low no man to—”

  “Anderson, be quiet!” cautioned Mrs. Crow. “You’ll wake the baby!” This started a new train of thought in Anderson’s perplexed mind.

  “Mebby she was waitin’ there while some one—her husband, fer instance—was leavin’ the baskit,” volunteered Isaac Porter humbly.

  “Don’t bother me, Ike; I’m thinkin’ of somethin’ else,” muttered Anderson. “Husband nothin’! Do you s’pose she’d ’a’ trusted that baby with a fool husband on a terrible night like that? Ladies and gentlemen, this here baby was left by a female resident of this very town.” His hearers gasped and looked at him wide-eyed. “If she has a husband, he don’t know he’s the father of this here baby. Don’t you see that a woman couldn’t ’a’ carried a heavy baskit any great distance? She couldn’t ’a’ packed it from Boggs City er New York er Baltimore, could she? She wouldn’t ’a’ been strong enough. No, siree; she didn’t have far to come, folks. An’ she was a woman, ’cause ain’t all typewritin’ done by women? You don’t hear of men typewriters, do you? People wouldn’t have ’em. Now, the thing fer me to do first is to make a house-to-house search to see if I c’n locate a typewritin’ machine anywheres. Get out of the way, Toby. Doggone you boys, anyhow, cain’t you see I want ter get started on this job?”

  “Say, Anderson,” said Harry Squires, the reporter, “I’d like to ask if there is any one in Tinkletown, male or female, who can afford to pay you a thousand dollars a year for taking care of that kid?”

  “What’s that?” slowly oozed from Anderson’s lips.

  “You heard what I said. Say, don’t you know you can bring up a kid in this town for eleven or twelve dollars a year?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” burst from Anderson’s indignant lips, but he found instant excuse to retire from the circle of speculators. A few minutes later he and his wife were surreptitiously re-reading the note, both filled with the fear that it said $10.00 instead of $1000.

  CHAPTER VI

  Reflection and Deduction

  “By gum, it does say a thousand,” cried Anderson, mightily relieved. “Harry Squires is a fool. He said jest now that it could be did fer eleven or twelve dollars. Don’t you suppose, Eva, that the mother of this here child knows what it costs to bring ’em up? Of course she does. When I find her I’ll prove it by her own lips that she knows. But don’t bother me any more, Eva; I got to git out an’ track her down. This is the greatest job I’ve had in years.”

  “See here, Anderson,” said his wife thoughtfully and somewhat stealthily, “let’s go slow about this thing. What do you want to find her for?”

  “Why—why, doggone it, Eva, what air you talkin’ about?” began he in amazement.

  “Well, it’s just this way: I don’t think we can earn a thousand dollars a year easier than takin’ care of this child. Don’t you see? Suppose we keep her fer twenty years. That means twenty thousand dollars, don’t it? It beats a pension all to pieces.”

  “Well, by ginger!” gasped Anderson, vaguely comprehending. “Fifty years would mean fifty thousand dollars, wouldn’t it. Gee whiz, Eva!”

  “I don’t imagine we can keep her that long.”

  “No,” reflectively; “the chances are she’d want ter git married inside of that time. They always—

  “’Tain’t that, Anderson. You an’ me’d have to live to be more’n a hundred years old.”

  “That’s so. We ain’t spring chickens, are we, deary?”

  She put her hard, bony hand in his and there was a suspicion of moisture in the kindly old eyes.

  “I love to hear you call me ‘deary,’ Anderson. We never get too old for that.”

  He coughed and then patted her hand rather confusedly. Anderson had long since forgotten the meaning of sentiment, but he was surprised to find that he had not forgotten how to love his wife.

  “Shucks!” he muttered bravely. “We’ll be kissin’ like a couple of young jay birds first thing we know. Doggone if it ain’t funny how a baby, even if it is some one else’s, kinder makes a feller foolisher’n he intends to be.” Hand in hand they watched the sleeping innocent for several minutes. Finally the detective shook himself and spoke:

  “Well, Eva, I got to make a bluff at findin’ out whose baby it is, ain’t I? My reputation’s at stake. I jest have to investigate.”

  “I don’t see that any harm can come from that, Anderson,” she replied, and neither appreciated the sarcasm unintentionally involved.

  “I won’t waste another minute,” he announced promptly. “I will stick to my theory that the parents live in Tinkletown.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” snorted Mrs. Crow disgustedly, and then left him to cultivate the choleric anger her exclamation had inspired.

  “Doggone, I wish I hadn’t patted her hand,” he lamented. “She didn’t deserve it. Consarn it, a woman’s always doin’ something to spoil things.”

  And so he fared forth with his badges and stars, bent on duty, but not accomplishment. All the town soon knew that he was following a clew, but all the town was at sea concerning its character, origin, and plausibility. A dozen persons saw him stop young Mrs. Perkins in front of Lamson’s store, and the same spectators saw his feathers droop as she let loose her wrath upon his head and went away with her nose in the air and her cheeks far more scarlet than when Boreas kissed them, and all in response to a single remark volunteered by the faithful detective. He entered Lamson’s store a moment later, singularly abashed and red in the face.

  “Doggone,” he observed, seeing that an explanation was expected, “she might ’a’ knowed I was only foolin’.”

  A few minutes later he had Alf Reesling, the town sot, in a far corner of the store talking to him in a most peremptory fashion. It may be well to mention that Alf had so far forgotten himself as to laugh at the marshal’s temporary discomfiture at the hands of Mrs. Perkins.

  “Alf, have you been havin’ another baby up to your house without lettin’ me know?” demanded Anderson firmly.

  “Anderson,” replied Alf, maudlin tears starting in his eyes, “it’s not kind of you to rake up my feelin’s like this. You know I been a widower fer three years.”

  “I want you to understand one thing, Alf Reesling. A detective never knows anything till he proves it. Let me warn you, sir, you are under suspicion. An’ now, let me tell you one thing more. Doggone your ornery hide, don’t you ever laugh ag’in like you did jest now er I’ll—”

  Just then the door flew open with a bang and Edna Crow, Anderson’s eldest, almost flopped into the store, her cap in her hand, eyes starting from her head. She had run at top speed all the way from home.

  “Pop,” she gasped. “Ma says fer you to hurry home! She says fer you to run!”

  Anderson covered the distance between Lamson’s store and his own home in record time. Indeed, Edna, flying as fast as her slim legs could twinkle, barely beat her father to the front porch. It was quite clear to Mr. Crow that something unusual had happened or Mrs. Crow would not have summoned him so peremptorily.

  She was in the hallway downstairs awaiting his arrival, visibly agitated. Before uttering a word she dragged him into the little sitting-room and closed the door. They were alone.

  “Is it dead?” he panted.

  “No, but what do you think, Anderson?” she questioned excitedly.

  “I ain’t had time to think. You don’t mean to say it has begun to talk an’ c’n tell who it is,” he faltered.

  “Heavens no—an’ it only six weeks old.”

  “Well, then, what in 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!”