"If I was a drinking man," said Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, "I'd think I had 'em."
Marshal Crow stalked to the door, pulling his coat-collar up about his throat as he encountered the furious blast of the wind.
At the top of the steps leading up to the porch stood a small figure wrapped in a shawl. The light from within shone full upon the figure. It was that of a young girl, and she was looking intently up the street.
"Well, of all the—Say, don't you know it's after nine o'clock?" exclaimed the old Marshal. "What's a young girl like you doin' out this time o' night?"
"Is—is that you, Mr. Crow?" quaked the girl without turning her head.
"It is. What's that got to do with it?"
"I—You don't see him anywheres up the street, do you?"
"Come inside if you want to talk to me. I ain't goin' to stand here in this door an' freeze to death. Come in here, I say."
"I dassent. Maybe he follered me."
"Maybe who follered you?"