"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."