tite, no
matter how long he had been cultivating it on barren soil. In the
streets of Tinkletown, and even at the county seat, he was an object of
such amazing concern that he slunk away in pure distress. It was indeed
an unsophisticated tramp who thought to thrive in Bramble County even
for a day and a night. 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. On
rare occasions he may have gone through some of the houses in
Tinkletown, but if he went through the streets no one was the wiser.
Anderson Crow solemnly but studiously headed him off in the outskirts,
and he took another direction. Twice in his career he drove out tramps
who had burglarised the houses of prominent citizens in broad daylight,
but what did it matter so long as the "hoboes" were kept from
desecrating the main street of the town? Mr. Crow's official star,
together with his badge from the New York detective agency, his Sons of
the Revolution pin, and his G.A.R. insignia, made him a person to be
feared. If the weather became too hot for coat and vest the proud
dignitary fastened the badges to his suspenders, and their presence
glorified the otherwise humble "galluses."

On the fourth day after the abduction Marshal Crow was suddenly aroused
from his lethargy by the news that the peace and security of the
neighbourhood was being imposed upon.

"The dickens you say!" he observed, abandoning the perpetual grip upon
his straggling chin whiskers.

"Yes, sir," responded the excited small boy, who, with two companions,
had run himself quite out of breath all over town before he found the
officer at Harkin's blacksmith shop.

"Well, dang 'em!" said Mr. Crow impressively.

"We was skatin' in the marsh when we heerd 'em plain as day," said the
other boy. "You bet I'm nuvver goin' nigh that house ag'in."

"Sho! Bud, they ain't no sech thing as ghosts," said Mr. Crow; "it's
tramps."

"You know that house is ha'nted," protested Bud. "Wasn't ole Mrs. Rank
slew there by her son-in-law? Wasn't she chopped to pieces and buried
there right in her own cellar?"

"Thunderation, boy, that was thirty year ago!"

"Well, nobody's lived in the ha'nted house sence then, has they? Didn't
Jim Smi