he's not goin' to be married till after the war, an' that's a long ways
off. Ed's around in his uniform an' says the National Guard's likely to
be called 'most any day now. He--"
"That's one of the arguments Joe Smathers put up to Fanny," said his
youngest daughter. "He said maybe the war would last five years, and he
thought she was a fool to wait that long. What's more, he said, if Ed
ever does get to France he's likely to be killed--or fatally
wounded--and then where would she be?"
Anderson suddenly lifted his right leg and slapped it with great force.
"By the great Jehoshaphat!" he shouted. "I've got it! I've solved the
whole derned mystery. Come to me like a flash. Of all the low-down,
cowardly--"
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.
"W'y--w'y--nobody," said Alf.
"They don't want to fight the _Germans_," said Mr. Crow triumphantly.
"That ought to settle the matter, Alf. What better proof do you want
than that? That shows the Germans are back of the whole infernal plot.
They are corruptin' our young men. Eggin' 'em into gittin' married
so's--"
"Well," said Alf, "there's only one way to put a stop to that. You got
to appeal to the women and girls of this here town. You simply got to
talk to 'em like a Dutch uncle, Anderson. These boys of our'n have just
got to remain single fer the duration of the war."
"That puts an idee in my head," said Anderson. "S'posin' I put up an
official notice from Washin'ton that all marriages contracted before the
draft are fer the duration of the war only. How's that?"
"Thunderation! No! That's just what the boys would like better'n
anything."
"But it ain't what the _girls_ would like, it is?"
Mr. Reesling was silent for a long time, letting the idea crystallize,
so to speak.
"Supposin' they hear about it in Washin'ton," said he doubtfully, but
still dazzled by the thought.
"President Wilson don't know this town's on the map," said Anderson, a
most surprising admission for him. "An' even if he does hear about it,
he'll back me up, you c'n bet your boots on that--even if I am a
Republican. Come on, Alf; let's step around to the _Banner_ printin'
office."
Shortly before noon a hastily printed poster, still damp and smelling of
ink, appeared on the bulletin-board in front of the town hall. A few
minutes later a similar decoration marred the facade of the Fairbanks
scales in front of Higgins's Feed Store, and still another loomed up on
the telephone pole in front of the post office.
With the help of the editor, who was above all things an enterprising
citizen and a patriot, the "official notice" was drafted, doctored and
approved in the dingy composing-room of the _Tinkletown Banner_. The
lone compositor, with a bucket of paste, sallied forth and, under the
critical eye of the town marshal, "stuck up" the poster in places where
no one could help seeing it.
The notice read:
OFFICIAL!!!
War Proclamation No. 7!!!
The Undersigned by Virtue of the Authority
vested in him by his fellowmen hereby
gives
DUE NOTICE
to the citizens of Tinkletown that the
President of These United States
and
Congress in solemn conclave
have uttered the following decree, to become
effective immediately upon publication
thereof:
All marriages entered into by Male Citizens of the United
States of America between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-one
on and after this date, the 21st of May, 1917, shall be in
force for the duration of the War only. This measure is taken
at this time for the purpose of making things as easy as
possible for our young heroes, who, in the grave hour of battle,
must not be worried with thoughts of the future.
Men so marrying shall have precedence over all others in the
SELECTIVE DRAFT
for the National Army Immediately to
be Called.
Such men shall be the first called to the
Colours.
TEMPORARY WIDOWS
of any and all such Soldiers shall not be
entitled to
PENSIONS
in the Event of the Death of said Provisional Husbands,
and shall revert upon notice thereof, to the State of
Single-blessedness from which they were
LURED!!!
By order of
ANDERSON CROW,
Marshal.
As the first of these desolating posters was put in place, the Rev. Mr.
Maltby, pastor of the Congregational Church, happened to be passing the
town hall. He halted and, in astonishment, read the notice.
[Illustration: _The Rev. Mr. Maltby, pastor of the Congregational
Church, happened to be passing the town hall_]
"My dear man," said he to Mr. Crow, "this cannot be true."
"Does seem a little high-handed, don't it?" said Anderson guiltily.
"Can it be possible that the President has issued such a
revolutionary--"
"Listen a minute, Mr. Maltby," said the marshal, taking him by the arm
and furtively glancing over his own shoulder. "It ain't true--not a
derned word of it. Now, wait a minute. Don't fly off the--Mornin',
Father Maloney, mornin' to you."
The sunny-faced Catholic priest had joined them. He adjusted his
spectacles and peered at the notice.
"Well, well, bless my soul!" he exclaimed, staring blankly at the
Congregationalist. "What's all this I see?"
"Come inside," said Anderson hastily. "Alf, if you happen to see Mr.
Downs, the Methodist preacher, and Justice Robb, bring 'em here right
away, will you?"
"Shall I go ahead and paste any more of these, Anderson?" inquired the
compositor, shifting his quid.
"Certainly," said the marshal.
Later on the marshal left the town hall, followed by several smiling
gentlemen of the cloth, Justice Robb, and the editor of the _Banner_.
"Bless your heart, Marshal Crow," said Father Maloney, "we're with ye to
a man. It's a glorious lie ye're telling, and ye've got the church solid
behind ye."
"Naturally _we_ shall not be obliged to falsify," said the Rev. Mr.
Maltby, still a bit shaken. "We can simply say that the matter is news
to us. Eh, brothers?"
"Sure," said Father Maloney. "We can do that much for the good of the
country. Indeed, if I'm closely pressed I may go as far as to say that I
caught a glimpse of the official despatch from Washington. This is no
time to deny the President, gentlemen, no matter who issues his
proclamation." He added the last with a whimsical smile and a wink that
rather shocked his Methodist brother. "Especially when the whole matter
is vouched for by our respected town marshal, who, to my certain
knowledge, possesses the veracity of a George Washington. Have you ever
been caught chopping down a cherry tree, Mr. Marshal?"
"No, _sir_," said Anderson promptly.
Father Maloney beamed. "There ye are!" he exclaimed heartily. "I told ye
so. The epitome of veracity. There isn't another man of his age in
America who would have answered no to that question, with no one in a
position to contradict him."
The editor had his notebook. "Gentlemen, would you object to being
interviewed on this important message from Washington? Giving your views
on the situation and anything else--"
"You may say for me, Harry, that I warmly indorse the President of the
United States in any act which he may deem wise and expedient," said
Rev. Mr. Maltby, rising nobly to the occasion. Father Maloney and Rev.
Mr. Downs promptly acquiesced.
"And also that I am prepared to issue marriage certificates for the
duration of the war to all females so desirin' 'em," said Justice of the
Peace Robb. "It ain't cuttin' me out of any fees," he went on,
addressing the marshal. "Fer as I c'n make out, they all want to git
married fer nothin'."
"I will be very careful how I word your remarks, gentlemen," said Editor
Squires, putting up his notebook. "Now, I'll start out and interview a
few of the prospective brides. It ought to make good reading."
Long before nightfall the sleepy village of Tinkletown was in a state of
agitation unsurpassed by anything within the memory of the oldest
inhabitant.... Along about supper time one could have heard animated
arguments rising above the clear stillness of the air, penetrating even
to the heaven which was called upon to witness the unswerving fidelity
of two opposing sexes. There was a distinct difference, however, in the
duration of this professed fidelity. Masculine voices pleaded for the
immediate justification of undying constancy, while those of a feminine
quality preferred a prolongation of the exquisite agony of suspense. In
short, the brides-elect were obdurate. They insisted on waiting, even to
the end of time, for the realization of their fondest, dearest hopes.
Several heartbroken gentlemen, preferring anything to procrastination,
threatened to shoot themselves.
[Illustration: _Several heartbroken gentlemen threatened to shoot
themselves_]
"What's the sense of doing that?" argued one middle-aged widow of a
practical turn of mind. "You can save funeral expenses by letting the
Germans do it for you."
The next day the merchants of Tinkletown--notably the Five and Ten Cent
Store and Fisher's Queensware Store--did a thriving business. From one
end of the town to the other came people returning presents that
fortunately had not been delivered, and others asking to have their
accounts credited with presents already received.
Of the twenty-odd weddings announced for the week ending June 3, 1917,
only one took place.
Mr. Otto Schultz was married on Saturday to Miss Bumbelburg. He was the
only candidate in town who was worth suing for breach of promise. Miss
Bumbelburg, having waited many years for her chance, was not to be
frightened by a Presidential proclamation. The duration of the war meant
nothing to her. She had unlimited faith in the Kaiser. When the war was
over he would come over to the United States and revoke all the silly
old laws. And she was so positive about it that, after a rather heated
interview in the home of Mr. Schultz, senior, that gentleman admitted it
would be cheaper for her to come and live with them after the wedding
than to present her with the thousand dollars she demanded in case Otto
preferred war to peace.
Mr. Crow, on the 5th of June, strode proudly, efficiently, up and down
Main Street, always stopping at the registration booth to slap former
fiances on the back and encourage them with such remarks as this:
"That's right, son. If you've _got_ to fight, fight for your country."
To Mr. Alf Reesling he confided:
"I tell you what, Alf, when this here Kaiser comes up ag'inst me he
strikes a snag. He couldn't 'a' started his plot in a worse place than
here in Tinkletown. Gosh, with all you hear about German efficiency,
you'd 'a' thought he'd 'a' knowed better, wouldn't you?"
THE PERFECT END OF A DAY
ANDERSON CROW GETS ONE ON THE KAISER
A long, low-lying bank of almost inky-black clouds hung over a blood-red
horizon. The sun of a warm, drowsy September day was going to bed beyond
the scallop of hills.
Suddenly the red in the sky, as if fanned by an angry wind, blazed into
a rigid flame; catching the base of the coal-black cloud it turned its
edges into fire; and as the flame burnt itself out, the rich yellow of
gold came to glorify the triumphant cloud. The nether edge seemed to dip
into a lake, the shores of which were molten gold and upon whose surface
craft of ever-changing colours lay moored for the coming night.
Anderson Crow, Marshal of Tinkletown, leaned upon his front-yard fence
and listened to the rhapsodic comments of Miss Sue Becker on the passing
panorama. Miss Becker, who had contributed several poems to the columns
of the Tinkletown _Banner_, and more than once had exhibited encouraging
letters from the editors of _McClure's_, _Scribner's_, _Harper's_, and
other magazines, was always worth listening to, for, as every one knows,
she was the first, and, so far as revealed, the only literary genius
ever created within the precincts of Tinkletown.
"You'll have to write a piece about it, Sue," said Anderson, shifting
his spare frame slightly.
"No mortal pen, Mr. Crow, could do justice to the grandeur, the
overpowering splendour of that vista," said she.
Anderson took another look at the sunset,--a more or less stealthy one,
it must be confessed, out of the corner of his eye. Sunsets were not
much in his line.
"It's a great vister," he acknowledged. "I don't know as I can think of
a word that will rhyme with it, though."
"There is such a thing as blank verse, Mr. Crow," said Miss Becker,
smiling in a most superior way.
Mr. Crow was thinking. "Blister wouldn't be bad," he announced.
"Something about the vister causin' a blister. I don't know as you are
aware of the fact, Sue, but I wrote consider'ble poetry when I was a
young feller. Mrs. Crow's got 'em all tied up in a pink ribbon. It's a
mighty funny thing that she won't even show 'em to anybody."
"Oh, but they are sacred," said Miss Becker feelingly, as she looked
over the rims of her spectacles at a spot in the sky some forty-five
degrees above the steeple of the Congregational Church down the street.
"I don't know as I meant 'em to be sacred at the time," said he; "but
there wasn't anything in 'em that was unfittin' for a young lady to
read."
"You don't understand. What could be more sacred than the outpourings
of love? What more--"
"'Course it was a good many years ago," Mr. Crow was quick to explain.
"Love's young dream," chided Miss Becker coyly.
Mr. Crow twisted his sparse grey beard with unusual tenderness. "Beats
all, don't it, Sue, what a poet'll do when he's tryin' to raise a
moustache?"
"I am sure I don't know," said Miss Becker stiffly.
"Speakin' about sunsets," said he hastily, after a quick glance at her
shaded upper lip, "how's your pa? I heard he had a sinkin' spell
yestiday."
"He's better." A moment later, with fine scorn: "His sun hasn't set yet,
Mr. Crow."
"Beats all how he hangs on, don't it? Eighty-seven last birthday, an'
spry as a man o' fifty up to--" He broke off to devote his attention to
a couple of strangers farther down the tree-lined street: two men who
approached slowly on the plank sidewalk, pausing every now and then to
peer inquiringly at the front doors of houses along the way.
Miss Sue Becker, whose back was toward the strangers, allowed her poetic
mind to resume its interest in the sunset.
"Golden cloudlets float upon a coral--What did you say, Mr. Crow?"
"Ever see 'em before, Sue?"
"Hundreds of times. They remind me of the daintiest, fleeciest puffs
of--"
"I'm talkin' about those men comin' up the street," said the old town
marshal sharply.
Miss Becker abandoned the transient sunset for something more durable.
Forty-odd summers had passed over her head.
For one professedly indifferent to the opposite sex, Miss Becker went
far toward dislocating her neck when Anderson Crow mentioned the
approach of a couple of strange men.
"I've never seen either of them before, Mr. Crow," she said, a little
jump in her voice.
"That settles it," said Anderson, putting on his spectacles.
"Settles what?"
"Proves they ain't been in Tinkletown more'n twenty minutes," he
replied, much too promptly to suit Miss Becker, who favoured him with a
look he wouldn't have forgotten in a long time if he had had eyes in the
back of his head. "They must be lookin' for some one," he went on,
squinting narrowly. "Good-bye, Sue. See you tomorrer, I suppose."
"I'm not going yet, Mr. Crow," she said, moving a little closer to the
fence. "You don't suppose I'm going to let those men pursue me all the
way home, do you?"
"They don't look like kidnappers," he said. "Besides, it ain't dark
enough yet."
"Just what do you mean by that, Anderson Crow?" she snapped.
"What do I mean by what?" he inquired in some surprise.
"By what you just said."
"I mean you're perfectly safe as long as it's daylight," he retorted.
"What else could I mean?"
The two strangers were quite near by this time--near enough, in fact, to
cause Miss Becker to lower her voice as she said:
"They're awfully nice looking gentlemen, ain't they?"
Evidently Mr. Crow's explanation had satisfied her, for she was smiling
with considerable vivacity as she made the remark. Up to that instant
she had neglected her back hair. Now she gracefully, lingeringly
fingered it to see if it was properly in place. In doing so, she managed
to drop her parasol.
To her chagrin, Marshal Crow took that occasion to behave in a most
incredible manner. It is quite probable that he forgot himself. In any
case, he picked up the parasol and returned it to her, snatching it, in
fact, almost from beneath the foot of the nearest stranger.
"Oh, thank you--thank you kindly, Mr. Crow," she giggled, and proceeded
to let it slip out of her fingers again. "Oh, how stupid! How perfectly
clumsy--"
"Did I hear you addressed as Mr. Crow?" inquired the foremost of the two
strangers, halting abruptly. He was a tall, florid man of forty or
thereabouts, with a deep and not unpleasant voice. His companion was
also tall but very gaunt and sallow. He wore huge round spectacles,
hooked over his ears. Both were well dressed, one in grey flannel, the
other in blue serge.
"You did," said the town marshal, straightening up. "You dropped your
umbrell' ag'in, Sue," he added. "Yes, sir, my name's Crow."
Miss Becker waited a few seconds and then picked up the parasol.
"The celebrated Anderson Crow?" asked the man with the glasses, opening
his eyes a little wider.
[Illustration: _"The celebrated Anderson Crow?" asked the man with the
glasses_]
Mr. Crow suddenly remembered that he was in his shirt-sleeves. His faded
blue sack-coat--"undress," he called it--hung limp and neglected on the
gate-post.
"More or less," he admitted, wishing to goodness he had on his best pair
of "galluses" instead of the ones he was wearing.
"Marshal of Tinkletown, I believe?" said the florid stranger, raising
his eyebrows slightly.
"Excuse me," said Anderson, conscious of a certain disparaging note in
the speaker's voice, which he quite naturally laid to the "galluses."
Without turning his back toward them he retrieved his coat from the
gate-post, remembering in time that those "plaguey" suspenders had
played him false that day and Alf Reesling had volunteered to "tie a
knot in 'em," somewhere in the back. "I could fine myself five dollars
fer goin' without my uniform," said he, as he slipped an arm into one
sleeve. "It's one of my hide-boundest rules," and his other arm went
in--not without a slight twinge, for he had been experiencing a touch of
rheumatism in that shoulder. "Yes, sir, I'm the Marshal o' Tinkletown,"
he added, indicating the bright nickel star that gleamed resplendent
among an assortment of glittering and impressive dangling emblems.
The man with the spectacles peered intently at the collection on Mr.
Crow's breast.
"You appear to be almost everything else as well, Mr. Crow," said he,
respectfully.
"Well, I guess I'll have to be going," put in Miss Becker at this
juncture. "Give my love to the girls, Mr. Crow."
She moved off up the board-walk, her back as stiff as a ramrod. Any one
with half an eye could see that she was resolved not to drop the parasol
again. No savage warrior on battle bent ever gripped his club with
greater determination.
"So long," was all that Marshal Crow could spare the time to say. "Yes
sir," he went on, making a fine show of stifling a yawn, "yes, sir, I've
had a few triflin' honours in my day. You gentlemen lookin' fer any one
in partic'lar?"
"Not now," said the florid one. "We've found him."
The spectacled man had his nose quite close to Mr. Crow's badges. He
read them off, in the voice and manner of one tremendously impressed.
"Grand Army of the Republic. Sons of the American Revolution. Sons of
Veterans. Tinkletown Battlefield Association. New York Imperial
Detective Association. Bramble County Horse-Thief Detective Association.
Chief of Fire Department. And what, may I ask, is the little round
button at the top?"
The marshal was astonished. "Don't you know what that is?"
"It doesn't appear to have any lettering--"
"It don't have to have any. That's an American Red Cross button."
"So it is,--so it is," cried the other hastily. "How stupid of me."
"And this one on the other lapel is a Liberty Loan button,--one hundred
dollars is what it represents, if anybody should ast you."
"I recognized it at once, sir. I have one of my own." He raised his hand
to his own lapel. "Why, hang it all, I forgot to remove it from my other
coat this morning."
"Well," said Anderson drily, "there 'pears to be some advantage in
havin' only one coat."
"Mr. Marshal," cut in the larger man brusquely, "we came to see you in
regard to a matter of great importance--and, I may add, privacy. Having
heard of your reputation for cleverness and infallibility--"
"As everybody in the land has heard," put in the other.
"--we desire your co-operation in an undertaking of considerable
magnitude. Quite frankly, I do not see how we can succeed without your
valuable assistance. You--"