this town that she helped put up that job on them, and--"
Anderson held up his hand and shook his head resolutely.
"Nope! I'm through. I'm not goin' to run. I mean to withdraw my name
tonight."
Considering the matter closed, he sauntered to the middle of the street
where he held up his hand and stopped a lame and venerable Ford
driven--or as Mr. Squires was in the habit of saying, urged--by Deacon
Rank.
"What's your speedo-_meter_ say, Deacon?" inquired the marshal blandly.
"It don't say anything," snapped the deacon.
Anderson saw fit to indulge in sarcasm. "Well, by gum, I'd 'a' swore
your old machine was movin'. Is it possible my eyes deceived me?"
"Course it was movin'--movin' strictly accordin' to law, too. Six miles
an hour. What you holdin' me up for?"
"So's I could get in and take a little joy ride with you," said Mr. Crow
affably. "Drop me at the post office, will you?" He stepped up beside
the deacon and calmly seated himself.
The deacon grumbled. "'Tain't more'n a hundred yards to the post
office," he said. "Stoppin' me like this an'--an' makin' me get out and
crank the car besides. An' I'm in a hurry, too. Couldn't you--"
"Well, I ain't in no hurry. If I was, don't you suppose I'd 'a' walked?"
That evening the town hall was filled with discouraged, apprehensive
Republicans. A half-dozen newly enfranchised women occupied front seats.
Ed. Higgins confided to those nearest him that he felt as though he was
in church, and Alf Reesling loudly advised the convention to be
careful, as there were ladies present.
Mr. Hud Lamson, as usual, was the chairman of the "Convention." No one
else ever had a chance to be chairman for the reason that Hud did not
insist upon having the honour thrust upon him. He simply _took_ it.
Following the usual resolutions condemning the Democratic Party to
perdition and at the same time eulogizing the Democratic Administration
at Washington, Mr. Ezra Pounder was nominated by acclamation for the
responsible post of town clerk. In swift succession, Ed. Higgins, Abner
Pickerell and Situate M. Jones were chosen for selectmen. Justice Robb
was unanimously chosen to succeed himself.
Then ensued a strange, significant silence--a silence fraught with
exceeding gravity and the portentous suggestion of something devastating
about to overtake the assemblage. Some one in the back of the hall
cleared his throat, and instantly, with one accord, every eye was turned
in his direction. It was as if he were clearing the way for action.
Harry Squires, the perennial secretary of all conventions held by all
parties in Tinkletown, by virtue of his skill with the pencil, arose
from his seat--and stepped to the front of the platform.
[Illustration: _Harry Squires stepped to the front of the platform_]
"Order!" called out Marshal Crow, in his most authoritative voice,
sweeping the convention with an accusing eye.
"Mr. Chairman, fellow Republicans and voters of the opposite sex," began
Harry, in a distinctly lugubrious tone, "we have now come to the most
critical moment in the history of Tinkletown. It is with ineffable
sorrow and dismay that I stand before you this evening, the bearer of
sad tidings. On the other hand, I expect to derive great joy in
offsetting this sad news later on in my humble speech. I am now,
gentlemen--and ladies--speaking of our most noted and most cherished
citizen, Mr. Anderson Crow, known to you all, I believe, without
exception. I--"
At this juncture, up jumped Alf Reesling and shouted:
"Three cheers for Anderson Crow!"
And three cheers were given with a vim. Uncle Dad Simms, a patriot of
long-standing but of exceedingly short memory, took the convention by
storm by crying out in a cracked but penetrating voice:
"Three cheers for the President of the United States! I don't keer if he
is a Democrat! Come on, now, men! Three cheers for President Cleveland!"
A roar of laughter went up and Uncle Dad, being quite deaf, followed it
with two squeaky cheers, all by himself, and then looked about in
triumph. Alf Reesling proposed three cheers for President Wilson, and
again the welkin rang. Having established a success as a promoter of
enthusiasm, Alf mounted a chair and roared:
"Now, let's give three cheers for General Pershing an' the boys over in
France, includin' the four noble young men from Tinkletown who are with
him in the trenches, killin' the botches! Now, hip--hip--"
And once more the air shivered under the impact of vocal enthusiasm.
Mr. Squires held up his hands and checked what might have become a habit
by thanking the convention for the timely and admirable interruption,
explaining that the digression had given him an opportunity to regain
command of his emotions.
"It is, however, with pain that I am authorized to announce, not only to
the glorious Republican Party, but to the City of Tinkletown, that--Hold
on, Alf! We can get along without three cheers for Tinkletown! To
announce that the name of Anderson Crow is hereby withdrawn from the
consideration of this convention for the--er--the nomination for Town
Marshal. Mr. Crow positively declines to make the race. It is not
necessary for me to dilate upon the manifold virtues and accomplishments
of our distinguished marshal. His fame extends to the uttermost corners
of the earth. For nearly half a century he has kept this town jogging
along in a straight and narrow path, and I for one--and I feel that I
voice the sentiment of every citizen here and elsewhere--I for one do
not resent the frequent reproaches and occasional arrests he has heaped
upon me in the discharge of his duty. It was all for the good of the
community, and I am proud to say that I have been arrested by Marshal
Crow more times than I have fingers and toes. And, I am further proud to
add, that on not a single occasion did Marshal Crow hesitate to admit
that he was mistaken. Gentlemen, it takes a pretty big man to admit that
he is mistaken. But, if you will read the next issue of the _Banner_,
you will see that I can write about him much more eloquently than I can
speak. He has positively decided not to be a candidate for re-election.
While we are thereby plunged into grief of the darkest hue, I am here to
tell you that our grief is mitigated by the most gorgeous ray of light
that ever beamed upon the human race. It is my pleasure, gentlemen of
the Republican Party--and ladies of the same sect--to present for
your--"
Alf Reesling's voice was heard in plaintive protest. He spoke to his
elbow neighbour, but in a tone audible to every one, far and near.
"I'll be dog-goned if I'll stand for that. It's an insult to every man
here to say they are of the same sex. We give 'em the vote and, by gosh,
they claim our sex. I--"
"Order!" commanded Marshal Crow.
The orator resumed. "It is my privilege to present for your
consideration the name of one of our most illustrious citizens for the
honourable office of Town Marshal. A name that is a household word,
second only to that of the present incumbent. Circumstances over which
we have no control--although we did have it up to a short time ago--make
it possible for me to present to you a name that will go down in history
as one of the grandest since the bonny days of good Queen Bess.
Gentlemen--and at the same time, ladies--I have the honour to put in
nomination for Town Marshal our distinguished fellow voter, Mrs.
Anderson Crow!"
A silence even more potential than the one preceding Mr. Squire's
peroration ensued. It was broken this time by Uncle Dad Simms, who
proceeded to further glorify his deafness by squeaking:
"And he'll be elected, too, you bet your boots. We don't want no
gosh-blamed woman fer--eh? What say, Alf?" And Alf, making a cup of his
hands, repeated with great vigour an inch or so from Uncle Dad's ear the
timely remark that had caused the ancient to hesitate. It is not
necessary to quote Alf, but Uncle Dad's rejoinder is important.
"Well, _Jee_-hosaphat!" he gasped.
"Is there a second to the nomination?" inquired the chairman.
Marshal Crow arose. "I second the nomination," he said, taking a sudden
tug at his whiskers. "Before we take a ballot, Mr. Chairman, I want to
say right here an' now that Mrs. Crow will have my full an' undivided
support, just as she has always had. I have allus maintained that a
woman's place is in the home. Therefore, when it comes time fer Mrs.
Crow to assume the responsibilities of this here office, I am goin' to
see to it that she _stays_ home an' tends to her household duties. I am
goin' to be deputy marshal durin' her term of office, without pay,
ladies an' gentlemen, an' I am goin' to lift every bit o' the work off'n
her shoulders. I believe in equal sufferin'. If she'll do the woman's
share o' the work, I'll do the man's, an' nothin' could be fairer than
that. Between us we'll give the city o' Tinkletown the best
administration the office of marshal has ever had. My wife ain't here
tonight to accept the honour you are goin' to heap on her, but I think I
can safely promise she'll consent to make the race. She may kick like a
bay steer at first, but when she sees it's her _duty_ to run, you bet
she'll do it! It's a case of woman ag'in woman, feller Republicans, an'
man ag'in man. All I got to say is that the best woman's bound to win. I
almost forgot to say that if the voters o' Tinkletown don't jump at the
chance to git a marshal an' a experienced deputy for the price o' one
salary, it's because there's more derned fools in the town than I
thought there was."
Mr. Ed Higgins sprang to his feet.
"I move, Mr. Chairman, that we make the nomination unanimous without a
dissenting vote," he cried out. "We got a chance to get the best deputy
marshal in the United States of America without it costin' us a red
cent, an' besides that, we get the best cook in all Tinkletown for
marshal. If there's anybody here, male or female, who c'n deny that Mrs.
Crow is the best cook alive I'd like to hear him say so. I've eat a
hundred meals in her house an' I know what I'm talkin' about. I defy
anybody--"
"I call for a vote!" cried out one of the women, bridling a little. "And
I want to say to you, Ed Higgins, that while I think Mrs. Crow will make
the best marshal we've ever had, I wouldn't go so far as to say she's
the best cook in Tinkletown. You haven't been invited to eat in _every_
house in this town, don't forget that."
"All in favour of making the nomination of Mrs. Crow unanimous signify
by holding up their hands," said the chairman.
Every hand went up. Then a rousing cheer was given for the "next Marshal
of Tinkletown," followed by the customary mumbling of "The Star Spangled
Banner."
Three full days were devoted by Anderson and the leaders of the
Republican Party to the task of inducing Mrs. Crow to make the race
against Minnie Stitzenberg. At first she refused point-blank. She
didn't intend to neglect her household duties for all the offices in
Tinkletown!
"But, consarn it, Eva!" Anderson protested for the hundredth time,
"nobody's askin' you to neglect your household duties. Ain't I agreein'
to handle the job for you?"
"Well, I posi-_tive_-ly refuse to wear a star--or carry a pistol."
"You don't have to. I'll wear the star."
"And if you think I'll traipse the streets of Tinkletown from morning
till night, you're very much--"
"That ain't any respectable woman's job," said her husband stiffly.
"You're not expected to do it as long as you got a deputy."
"And as for snooping around putting my nose into other people's
business,--why--"
"Now, don't let that worry you, Eva. That's part o' my job."
"Who's going to tend jail when there's anybody locked up in it?"
"I am, o' course."
"And who's going to be street commissioner, truant officer, chief of the
fire depart--"
"You are, Eva,--but I'm going to look after _everything_, mind you. All
you got to do is to see that I git somethin' to eat whenever I need it,
an' a bed to sleep in at night, an' I'll--"
"A bed to sleep in, you ninny!" she cried. "You're going to sleep in
the same bed you've been sleeping in for forty years. What are you
talking about? Ain't you going to sleep with me if I appoint you deputy
marshal?"
"Certainly," Anderson made haste to assure her. "Unofficially, o'
course," he went on, with profound regard for the ethics involved.
"Well, I'll think it over," she said wearily. "Don't bother me now, you
two; can't you see I'm making apple butter?"
"I hope you will consent to run, Mrs. Crow," put in the wily Mr.
Squires, "if only for the sake of showing Minnie Stitzenberg that it
won't do her any good to be saying things about--well, about anybody in
particular." He concluded very lamely.
"Has that woman been saying things about me?" demanded Mrs. Crow.
"I ought to have sense enough to keep my mouth shut," said Harry,
scowling darkly. Catching the astonished look on Anderson's face, he
hastily suggested that they "beat it."
Out in the front yard Anderson halted him. "Has Minnie been saying
anything about my wife, Harry Squires?"
Harry first looked over his shoulder and then winked. "Not that I know
of," he said, chuckling. "But I guess it's safe to go ahead and print
the ticket with Mrs. Crow's name on it."
Never in all its sedentary existence had Tinkletown experienced a
livelier campaign.
"If you vote for Minnie Stitzenberg, I'll never speak to you again," was
the common argument of the Crowites, and "Don't you ever try to look me
in the face again if you vote for that old Mrs. Crow," was the slogan of
the opposition.
Mrs. Crow conducted her own campaign.
Anderson discovered to his great dismay that his meals were not only
irregular in the matter of time, but frequently did not materialize at
all. His wife and daughters neglected him completely. On three separate
occasions after waiting until nearly eight o'clock for his supper, he
strolled disconsolately over to the equally abandoned home of Alf
Reesling.
"I'm a mighty poor cook," confessed Alf on the first occasion, a hungry,
harassed look in his eyes. "But anything's better'n starvin', ain't it?"
"It shore is," said Anderson with feeling.
"I ain't seen a petticoat around my house since half-past nine this
mornin'," lamented Alf, upsetting a pan of milk while trying to get a
plate of cold ham out of the icebox. "It's terrible."
"Lemme take your knife, Alf. I'll peel the pertatoes--if you'll tell me
where they are."
"I don't know where anything is," said Alf, leaning dejectedly against
the kitchen sink.
"Well," said Anderson, "let's look."
"If the election was a week further off, I'd give up an' go to drinkin'
again," said Alf on another occasion. "I'd sooner drink myself to death
than starve. Starvation is a terrible end, Anderson. Worse than hangin',
they say."
"Only four days more," sighed Anderson, clipping off a hunk of bologna.
"My wife says if I'll hold out till after election, she won't never
leave the kitchen ag'in long as she lives."
"That's what mine says. Sherman was only half right. War may be hell for
men, but, by gosh, women are hell for war. An' that's what it is--war,
Anderson, war to the hilt. Every woman in town's got her knife out an',
my God, how they're slashin' each other! There won't be a whole woman
left."
"Well, I'd be satisfied with half a one," mused Anderson, a faraway look
in his eyes.
The day before the election, Mrs. Crow played her trump card. She had
treasured an open boast made years before by the disappointed old maid
who now opposed her. Minnie, before attaining years of discretion and
still smarting under the failures of youth, had spitefully announced
that she was a spinster from choice. With great scorn she had stated,
while sitting on Mrs. Crow's porch, that she would die an old maid a
hundred times over sooner than marry any one in Tinkletown. And, she
added, the best proof that she meant what she said was the fact that
nearly every man in town had asked her to marry him before he asked any
one else!
The news spread like wildfire the instant Mrs. Crow released it. Mrs.
Crow's veracity was not a thing to be questioned.
When the returns were all in, Mrs. Crow was found to have received 573
votes (women included), out of a total of 601 cast. Miss Stitzenberg
held the German vote solid, including seven from her own sex who could
afford to disregard the slander because they had been safely married in
Germany long before coming to Tinkletown.
* * * * *
The day after the new marshal's induction into office Anderson appeared
with his star glittering so brightly that it dazzled the eye. His shoes
were polished, his clothes brushed and--shocking to relate--his trousers
creased. In all his career as marshal he had never gone to such extremes
as this. He was, however, not in a happy frame of mind. His customary
aplomb was missing.
"Well, of all the--" began Alf Reesling. Then, before Anderson could put
in a word of warning, he shouted to the group in front of Lamson's
store: "Hey! Look at the dude!"
Anderson, very red in the face, declined a seat on a soap box.
"If I'd knowed she was goin' to act like this, I'd a voted ag'in her
myself," he said rather wanly. "She started in bossin' me the very
minute she got my place as marshal. She's laid down the law to me, an',
by crickety, she says if I'm goin' to be her deputy I've got to look
like this every day. Look at them shoes! And these pants! No, I can't
set down. I don't dare risk sp'ilin' the creases my daughter Susie put
in 'em 'fore I was up this mornin'."
VICIOUS LUCIUS
Lucius Fry lived up back of the Power-house on the outskirts of
Tinkletown. He had a wife, two children and a horse and buggy. For a
great many years he had led a quiet, peaceful, even suppressed
existence. Being a rather smallish, bony sort of man, with a large
Adam's apple and bow legs, he was an object of considerable scorn not
only to his acquaintances but to his wife and children, and after a
fashion, to his horse.
The latter paid absolutely no attention to him when he said "Get-ap," or
when he applied the "gad"; she neither obeyed the command nor resented
the chastisement. She jogged along in her own sweet way quite as if he
were nowhere in the vicinity. His wife abused him, and his children
ignored him. No one, it would appear, had the slightest use or respect
for Lucius Fry.
He was, by profession, a well-digger. The installation of a water-works
system in Tinkletown had made him a well-digger in name only. For a
matter of five or six years, barring the last six months, he had been in
the employ of his wife. She took in washing, and it was his job to
collect and deliver the "wash" three times a week. In return for this he
received board and lodging and an occasional visit to the
moving-picture theatre. One of his daughters clerked in the
five-and-ten-cent store, and the other, aged twelve, was errand girl to
Miss Angie Nixon, the fashionable dressmaker.
Lucius had married very much above him, so to speak. That is to say, his
wife was something like nine or ten inches the taller of the two. When
they appeared on the street together,--which was seldom,--you could see
him only if you chanced to be on _that_ side of her. Mrs. Fry was nearly
six feet tall and very wide, but Lucius was not much over five feet two.
He had a receding chin that tried to secrete itself behind a scant,
dun-colored crop of whiskers, cultivated by him with two purposes in
view; first, to provide shelter for his shrinking chin, and second, to
avoid the arduous and unnecessary task of shaving.
[Illustration: _When they appeared on the street together_]
Roughly speaking, Lucius was a shiftless creature. It had long been the
consensus of opinion--freely expressed throughout Tinkletown--that he
did not amount to a tinker's dam.
However that may be, some six or seven months prior to the incidents
about to be related, Mr. Fry himself wrought a tremendous and
unbelievable change in the foregoing opinion. Almost in the wink of an
eyelash he passed through a process of transmogrification that not only
bewildered him but caused the entire community to sit up and take notice
of him.
It all came about in the oddest sort of way. For a number of years
Lucius had been in the habit of currying the old grey mare on Saturday
mornings. Away back in his mind lurked an hereditary respect for the
Sabbath. He wanted old Peggy to be as clean as possible on
Sunday--observing the same principle, no doubt, that induces a great
many people to take a bath on Saturday night. Moreover, he changed the
bedding in her stall on Saturdays, employing a pitchfork and a spade.
For a number of years Peggy had put up with these attentions, responding
amiably to his directions--such as "Get over, dern ye," or "Whoa, back,"
"Stan' still, can't ye?" and so on.
One never-to-be-forgotten Saturday morning in the spring of the year,
Peggy happened to be peevish. The cause of her peevishness was a swarm
of intensely active flies. Mr. Fry was accustomed to an occasional swish
of her tail across his face. He even welcomed it, for the flies bothered
him almost as much as they did Peggy. On mornings when he felt unusually
tired, he was rather grateful to Peggy for including him in the sweep of
her tail.
But on this particular morning the exasperated nag planted one of her
hoofs on Mr. Fry's toes while he was engaged in brushing out the kinks
in her mane.
Mrs. Fry happened to be in the stable at the time, seeing if the hens
had mislaid anything in the hay. She was astonished by the roar of a
mighty oath, followed almost instantly by a thunderous thump on the
barrel-like anatomy of the family horse. A second or two later Peggy's
head came in for a resounding whack, and the stream of profanity
increased to a torrent.
Springing to her feet, the surprised lady cast a startled glance over
the manger into the stall. Her husband had old Peggy backed up against
the partition and was preparing to deliver a third blow with the spade
when she called out to him: "Stop it, you little fool!"
Mr. Fry's attention was diverted. Peggy was spared the impending blow.
Instead, the outraged hostler charged around the partition, through a
narrow passage and into the presence of his wife. He hobbled painfully.
Inarticulate sounds issued from his compressed lips. He gripped the
spade-handle so tightly that cords stood out on his rather formidable
forearms.
Mrs. Fry got as far as "You ugly little--" and then, as he bore down
upon her, turned to flee. He altered his course, and as she passed him
on the way to the open door, the flat of the spade landed with impelling
force upon the broadest part of her person. The sound was not so hollow
as that which resulted from the wallop on Peggy's ribs, but its echo was
a great deal more far-reaching. Indeed, Mrs. Fry's howl could have been
heard a quarter of a mile away. She passed through the door into the
barnyard on the wing, as it were.
[Illustration: _He altered his course, and as she passed him, the flat
of his spade landed with impelling force_]
Lucius blindly took another swing at her with the spade as she made her
exit. Missing her by several feet, he spun completely around several
times with the momentum; then, not to be deprived of the full measure of
triumph, he hurled the implement after her retreating figure. Rage
improved the accuracy as well as the force of his effort. The spade
caught Mrs. Fry below the waistline and for nearly a month thereafter
she was in the habit of repairing with female visitors to an upstairs
bedroom where she proudly revealed to them the extensive welt produced
by her husband's belated return to power.
Not completely satisfied, however, he set out in pursuit of her,
principally on one foot, but with a swiftness that surprised both of
them. Overtaking her near the barnyard gate, he pulled up suddenly,
realizing the peril of being too precipitate. He was rushing into
disaster. She was likely to turn and snatch the offensive away from him.
But just as he was on the point of turning to run the other way, she
flopped down on her knees and began begging him for God's sake to spare
her! Her eyes were tightly closed, and her arms were raised to shield
her face.
Seizing this fine opportunity, he edged around in front of her, took the
most careful, deliberate aim, and forthwith planted his fist solidly
upon her unprotected nose.