en Identity

Detective Crow found little difficulty in gaining admittance to Colonel
Randall's summer home. He had secreted his badge, and it was indeed a
sorry-looking tramp who asked for a bite to eat at the kitchen door.

Three or four young women were busy with chafing dishes in this
department of the house, and some good-looking young men were looking on
and bothering them with attentions. In the front part of the house a
score of people were laughing and making merry.

"Gosh!" said the new tramp, twisting his chin whiskers, "how many of you
are there?"

"Oh, there are many more at home like us," trilled out one of the young
women gaily. "You're just in time, you poor old thing, to have some of
the bride-to-be's cake."

"I guess I'm in the wrong house," murmured Anderson blankly. "Is it a
weddin'?"

"No; but there will be one before many days. It's just a reunion. How I
wish Rosalie Gray were here!" cried another girl.

Just then there was a pounding on the door, and an instant later Isaac
Porter stalked in at the head of the posse.

"Throw up your hands!" called Anderson, addressing himself to the posse,
the members of which stopped in blank amazement. Some of them obligingly
stuck their hands on high. "What do you want here?"

"We--we--we're lookin' fer a tramp who said he robbed a hen roost,"
faltered Isaac Porter.

"What is the meaning of all this?" called a strong voice from the
dining-room, and the flabbergasted Tinkletownians turned to face Colonel
Randall himself, the owner of the house.

"Derned if I know!" muttered Anderson Crow; and he spoke the truth.

"Why, it's Anderson Crow!" cried a gay young voice.

"Jumpin' Jehosophat!" ejaculated the detective; "it's the body!"

"The school-teacher!" exclaimed the surprised Tinkletownians, as with
their eyes they proceeded to search the figure before them for blood
stains. But no sooner had the chorused words escaped their lips than
they realised how wretchedly commonplace was their blundering expression
in comparison with the faultlessly professional phraseology of their
leader; and, overwhelmed with mortification, the posse ached to recall
them; for that the correct technical term had been applied by one for
years trained to the vernacular of his calling was little consolation to
these sensitive souls, now consumed with envy.

In the meantime, the quarry, if we may be permitted so to designate her,
stood before them as pretty as a picture. A