"Yes; I want to see you private, Anderson. Its important," begged Alf.
"How many times have I got to set down on you, Alf Reesling?" exploded Anderson. "Doggone, I'd like to know how a man's to solve mysteries if he's got to stand around half the time an' listen to fambly quarrels. Tell yer wife I'll—"
"This ain't no family quarrel. Besides, I ain't got no wife. It's about this here—"
"That'll do, now, Alf! Not another word out of you!" commanded Anderson direfully.
"But, dern you, Anderson," exploded Alf, "I've got to tell you—"
But Anderson held up a hand.
"Don't swear in the presence of the dead," he said solemnly. "You're drunk, Alf; go home!" And Alf, news and all was hustled from the schoolhouse by a self-appointed committee of ten.
"Now, we'll search fer the body," announced Anderson. "Git out of the way, Bud!"
"I ain't standin' on it," protested twelve-year-old Bud Long.
"Well, you're standin' mighty near them blood-stains an'—"