Part 10 (1/2)
Mrs. Crow interrupted him. ”Do you mean to say, Anderson Crow, that you never suspected what's got into all these gay Lotharios?”
He was instantly on his guard. ”What are you talkin' about, Ma?” he demanded querulously. ”You surely can't mean to insinuate that I--”
”What is this mystery you've just been solvin'?” she asked relentlessly.
He met this with a calm intolerance.
”Nothin' much. Just simply got to the bottom of a German plot to stuff the young men of America so full of weddin' cake they won't be able to git into the trenches, that's all.”
”My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Crow, who, as a dutiful wife, never failed to be impressed by her husband's belated discoveries.
”Eggin' our boys into gittin' married, so's they can't be drafted,” went on Anderson, expanding with his new-found idea. ”It's a general pro-German plot--world-wide, as the sayin' is. Now, I'll tell you somethin' else. Shut the door, Susie. Like as not some spy's listenin'
outside this very minute. They know I'm onto 'em.” He lowered his voice. ”You'd be surprised if I was to tell you that the whole derned plot originated right here in Tinkletown, wouldn't you? Well, that's exactly what I'm goin' to tell you. Started right here and spread from one end of the land to the other. Sort of headquarters here. I don't know as there is any more prominent or influential Germans in the whole United States than Adolph Schultz, the butcher on Main Street, and Heiney Wimpelmeyer, the tanyard man, and Ben Olson, the contractor, and--”
”Ben Olson is a Swede,” interrupted Carrie.
”He _claims_ to be a Swede,” said her father severely. ”Don't try to tell me anything, Carrie. I guess I know what I'm talkin' about.” He paused to mentally repair the break in his chain of thought.
”Um--ah--what _wuz_ I talkin' about?”
”About the Swedes,” said Carrie, snickering.
”Breakfast's ready, Pa,” said Mrs. Crow. ”Call the boys, Susie.”
”How are you going to stop it, Pop?” inquired Susie, after they were all seated.
”Never you mind,” said he. ”I've got the thing all worked out. I'll stop it, all right.”
”You can't keep people from gittin' married, Anderson, if they're set on doin' it,” said his wife.
”You bet if I was old enough I wouldn't be gittin' married,” said fourteen-year-old Hiram, in a somewhat ambiguous burst of patriotism.
Immediately after breakfast Mr. Crow set out for the town hall. He was deep in thought. His whiskers were elevated to an almost unprecedented level, so tightly was his jaw set. He had made up his mind to preserve the honour of Tinkletown. Meeting Alf Reesling in front of the post office, he unburdened himself in a flood of indignation that left the town drunkard soberer than he had been in years, despite his vaunted abstemiousness.
”But you can't slap all the Germans in jail, Anderson,” protested Alf.
”In the first place, it ain't legal, and in the second place--in the second place--” He paused and scratched his head, evidently to some purpose, for suddenly his face cleared. ”In the second place, the jail ain't big enough.”
”That ain't my fault,” said the marshal grimly. ”We've got to nip this thing in the bud if we have to--”
”What proof have you got that the Germans are back of all this? Got to have proof, you know.”
”Gosh a'mighty, Alf, ain't you got any sense at all? What are all these fellers gittin' married for if there ain't somethin' behind it? They ain't--”
”They're gittin' married because every blamed one of 'em is a slacker,”
said Alf forcibly.
”A what?”
”Slacker. They don't want to fight, that's what it means.”
Anderson pondered. He tugged at his whiskers.
”They don't want to fight _who_?” he demanded abruptly.