ayin' is. Now, I'll tell you
somethin' else. Shut the door, Susie. Like as not some spy's listenin'
outside this very minute. They know I'm onto 'em." He lowered his
voice. "You'd be surprised if I was to tell you that the whole derned
plot originated right here in Tinkletown, wouldn't you? Well, that's
exactly what I'm goin' to tell you. Started right here and spread from
one end of the land to the other. Sort of headquarters here. I don't
know as there is any more prominent or influential Germans in the whole
United States than Adolph Schultz, the butcher on Main Street, and
Heiney Wimpelmeyer, the tanyard man, and Ben Olson, the contractor,
and--"

"Ben Olson is a Swede," interrupted Carrie.

"He _claims_ to be a Swede," said her father severely. "Don't try to
tell me anything, Carrie. I guess I know what I'm talkin' about." He
paused to mentally repair the break in his chain of thought.
"Um--ah--what _wuz_ I talkin' about?"

"About the Swedes," said Carrie, snickering.

"Breakfast's ready, Pa," said Mrs. Crow. "Call the boys, Susie."

"How are you going to stop it, Pop?" inquired Susie, after they were all
seated.

"Never you mind," said he. "I've got the thing all worked out. I'll stop
it, all right."

"You can't keep people from gittin' married, Anderson, if they're set on
doin' it," said his wife.

"You bet if I was old enough I wouldn't be gittin' married," said
fourteen-year-old Hiram, in a somewhat ambiguous burst of patriotism.

Immediately after breakfast Mr. Crow set out for the town hall. He was
deep in thought. His whiskers were elevated to an almost unprecedented
level, so tightly was his jaw set. He had made up his mind to preserve
the honour of Tinkletown. Meeting Alf Reesling in front of the post
office, he unburdened himself in a flood of indignation that left the
town drunkard soberer than he had been in years, despite his vaunted
abstemiousness.

"But you can't slap all the Germans in jail, Anderson," protested Alf.
"In the first place, it ain't legal, and in the second place--in the
second place--" He paused and scratched his head, evidently to some
purpose, for suddenly his face cleared. "In the second place, the jail
ain't big enough."

"That ain't my fault," said the marshal grimly. "We've got to nip this
thing in the bud if we have to--"

"What proof have you got that the Germans are back of all this? Got to
have proof, you know."

"Gosh a'mighty, Alf, ain't you got any sense