It was midnight in Tinkletown, many months after the events mentioned in the foregoing chapters, and a blizzard was raging. The February wind rasped through the bare trees, shrieked around the corners of lightless houses and whipped its way through the scurrying snow with all the rage of a lion. The snow, on account of the bitter cold in the air, did not fly in big flakes, but whizzed like tiny bullets, cutting the flesh of men and beasts like the sting of wasps. It was a good night to be indoors over a roaring fire or in bed between extra blankets. No one, unless commanded by emergency, had the temerity to be abroad that night. The Crow family snoozed comfortably in spite of the calliope shrieks of the wind. The home of the town marshal was blanketed in peace and the wind had no terrors for its occupants. They slept the sleep of the toasted. The windows may have rattled a bit, perhaps, and the shutters may have banged a trifle too remorselessly, but the Crows were not to be disturbed. The big, old-fashioned clock in the hall downstairs was striking twelve when Anderson Crow awoke with a start. He was amazed, for to awake in the middle of the night was an unheard-of proceeding for him. He caught the clang of the last five strokes from the clock, however, and was comforting himself with the belief that it was five o'clock, after all, when his wife stirred nervously. "Are you awake, Anderson?" she asked softly. "Yes, Eva, and it's about time to get up. It jest struck five. Doggone, it's been blowin' cats and dogs outside, ain't it?" he yawned. "Five? It's twelve-now, don't tell me you counted the strokes, because I did myself. Ain't it queer we should both git awake at this unearthly hour?" "Well," murmured he sleepily now that it was not five o'clock, "it's a mighty good hour to go back to sleep ag'in, I reckon." "I thought I heard a noise outside," she persisted. "I don't blame you," he said, chuckling. "It's been out there all night." "I mean something besides the wind. Sounded like some one walkin' on the front porch." "Now, look here, Eva, you ain't goin' to git me out there in this blizzard--in my stockin' feet--lookin' fer robbers--" "Just the same, Anderson, I'm sure I heard some one. Mebby it's some poor creature freezin' an' in distress. If I was you, I'd go and look out there. Please do." "Doggone, Eva, if you was me you'd be asleep instid of huntin' up trouble on a night like this. They ain't nothin' down there an' you--but, by cracky! mebby you're right. Supposin' there is some poor cuss out there huntin' a place to sleep. I'll go and look;" and Mr. Crow, the most tender-hearted man in the world, crawled shiveringly but quickly from the warm bed. In his stocking feet--Anderson slept in his socks on those bitter nights--he made his way down the front stairs, grumbling but determined. Mrs. Crow followed close behind, anxious to verify the claim that routed him from his nest.