Fred Fearnot's Day, or The Great Reunion at Avon  By Kit Clyde
"Murdered by tramps," were the words that greeted my ears as I
trudged along the forest road in one of the northern countries
of Michigan, under the hot sunshine of a June day.  An old man
had been murdered in his cabin for money -alone old fellow, who
lived a hermit life-and great excitement prevailed in the
neighborhood. I had been sent to the scene of the murder by a
woman who was interested in the case, and I went to ferret the
assassin out and see him imprisoned for his crime.  A dozen men,
rough frontiersmen, were gathered about the rude log-cabin when
I approached, with my bundle on my shoulder, and looked upon the
scene.  "Eh? Who's this?"  Sharp, suspicious glances were cast
over me. I resembled a tramp very much, and those men were just
at present in an ugly mood. I did not fear them, however. I had
carried my life in my hands on too many occasions for that.
"What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?" I questioned, in a
pleasant voice,