that trunk"_]
The two strangers turned on him.
"Well, who the deuce have we here?" said the man, with some acerbity.
"Oh, what a nice old policeman!" cried the lady, fixing the Marshal with
a pair of intensely blue eyes. Mr. Crow looked at her in amazement.
Could any one as pretty, as dainty and as refined-looking as she be
engaged in the awful business of charming snakes?
"Before we go any further, mister, I've got to know what's inside that
box," said Anderson firmly.
"What's the matter with you?" demanded the other. "There's nothing in it
that need excite the law, my good man."
"This is our town marshal, Anderson Crow," explained Mort Fryback.
"I might have known it," said the stranger. "I've heard a good deal
about Mr. Crow. Well, what's the answer?"
"That's what I want to know," snapped Anderson. "What is the answer?
What kind are they? And how many have you got?"
The stranger was on the point of exploding with indignation when his
fair companion intervened.
"Leave it to me, George dear. You always fly into such a temper. If
you'd only let me attend to the small things, while you look out for
the big ones, we'd get along so much better. Wouldn't we, Mr. Crow?"
She appealed to Mr. Crow so abruptly and so sweetly that he said he
guessed so before he could check himself.
"If you will stay here until we find a key that will fit, Mr. Crow, you
will see with your own eyes what will make them pop out of your head."
"Mort, you keep away from that box, I say!" commanded Anderson, now sure
of his ground. "Do you want to get bit?"
"Oh, dear me, they won't bite you!" cried the young lady. "I promise you
they are most amiable. I have been handling them for several weeks
and--"
Her husband interrupted her. He revealed symptoms of increasing
annoyance.
"See here, let's get busy and open this thing. They've got to be fed,
you know,--and it's all damned poppycock discussing the matter any
longer."
Marshal Crow held up his hand as if stopping traffic in Main Street.
"You are in the presence of the law, Mr. Wolf," he began. The young
woman giggled. He glared at her.
"My name is Fox," said the young man, curtly.
"That don't make any difference," retorted the Marshal. "Mine's Crow,
and I represent the law. You--"
"How delicious!" said Mrs. Fox. "So like that cunning poem of Guy
Wetmore Carryl's. You know it, of course, Mr. Crow?"
She declaimed:
"'I blush to add that when the bird
Took in the situation
He said one brief, emphatic word,
Unfit for publication.
The fox was greatly startled, but
He only sighed and answered "tut"'"
"Don't be silly, Bess," said her husband. "This is no time to recite
poetry."
"I don't see any sense in it, anyhow," said Marshal Crow.
Mr. Fryback emerged from behind the cutlery counter, whither he had
repaired in some haste when it became evident that Mrs. Fox was likely
to remain for some time. He was wiping his lips with the back of his
hand, and what very recently might have been mistaken for a prodigious
swelling in his cheek had strangely subsided.
"Why shouldn't I fit a key to that lock, Andy?" he demanded, rather
hotly. "What right have you got to interfere with my business?"
The Marshal's lips parted to utter a sharp retort, but the words failed
to issue. Young Mrs. Fox suddenly stooped over and peered intently at
several heretofore unnoticed holes at one end of the black box. These
holes, about an inch in diameter, formed a horizontal row. Much to Mr.
Crow's alarm, the young lady pulled off her glove and stuck a finger
into one of the little apertures and apparently wriggled it without fear
or trepidation. Almost instantly there was an ominous rustling inside
the box. Withdrawing her finger, she called out:
"Please look!"
The invitation was unnecessary. Mr. Crow was looking for all he was
worth.
"Good gracious, ma'am!" he gasped. "Don't stir 'em up like that. Next
thing they'll crawl out of them holes and--"
"Why, you poor old goose!" she said, but not disrespectfully. "They're
much too large to crawl through these holes. I wish I could catch hold
of one of their tails and--Look!" She held her finger close to the hole
and a long, thin black tongue darted through and began to writhe about
in a most malevolent manner.
"For gosh sake!" exclaimed the Marshal, retreating a couple of steps.
This sudden action on his part brought a venomous oath from Mr. Fryback,
and an instant apology as well.
"You'd cuss, too," explained the blasphemer to the lady, "if a clumsy
elephant, stepped on the only good foot you've got."
"If you think I'm the one that claims to be an elephant--" began
Anderson.
"Cootchy, cootchy, cootchy," cooed the lady, addressing the row of
holes. Whereupon the rustling in the interior of the devilish box
increased to a turmoil. The two citizens of Tinkletown stared wide-eyed
at the three little circles, and their eyes grew wider as they saw that
one of them was now completely stopped up by a dark, ugly object that
bore resemblance to nothing they had ever seen before--a wet, shiny
thing that was alive and quivering.
The unnatural Mrs. Fox promptly poked her finger through the hole and
rubbed the snout of what must have been a full-sized boa-constrictor.
Instantly to their horror, the black obstruction, went through a process
of splitting, and several deadly fangs were revealed. Once more the
wriggling black tongue darted out to caress the lady's unprotected
finger.
"Oh, you darling!" cried the lady. "Please, Mr. Locksmith, see if you
can't find a key that will fit the lock."
Marshal Crow dragged his friend toward the door.
"Did you see it?" he whispered hoarsely.
Before Mort could answer, the door flew open and in rushed Mrs. Bloomer,
bareheaded and in a great state of agitation.
"For heaven's sake, Anderson, hurry up and come with me," she cried.
"Bring a pistol--and, Mort, you get a couple of axes and a pitchfork or
two. My God, something awful is loose in one of them rooms upstairs!
The most terrible racket is going on in there. I--Oh, there you are!"
She caught sight of her lodgers. "Arrest them, Anderson! Lock them up at
once. They're dangerous people. They oughtn't to be running at large.
Oh, that awful thing! It sounds like it was twenty feet long, and it's
thrashing all over the room. Oh, my God! What a scare I've had! Oh, you
needn't look at me innocent like that, you two. You're in for it, or my
name ain't Jennie Bloomer. Call a posse, Anderson, and surround the
hotel. Thank Heaven, the door of that room is locked, but goodness knows
how soon it will be crawlin' through the transom."
At that instant she discovered that her skirt was almost touching the
big black box on the floor. Emitting a sharp squeal, she gave an
elephantine leap to the shelter of Anderson's arms, almost bowling him
over.
"God knows what she's got in that valise," she whimpered.
Mr. Fox put on an exceedingly bold front. Realizing that he was
cornered, he adopted a lightly boastful air.
"What we've got in this valise, as you call it, madam, is worth more
than your whole blamed hotel."
"Keep away from that valise," warned Anderson Crow, addressing Mr. Fox.
"Give me time to think. Somethin's got to be done, and right away. I
can't take any chances of these terrible things gettin' loose an'
drivin' our citizens out of town."
"The first thing you got to do, Anderson Crow," shouted Mrs. Bloomer,
"is to capture the reptile that's loose in my hotel. That's what you got
to do." She turned upon the pretty Mrs. Fox. "Snake charmer! That's a
nice business for a woman to be in. Don't come near me."
"I am not thinking of coming near you, you old rip!" said Mrs. Fox,
losing her temper in a very womanly fashion.
"None o' that, now--none o' that," warned the town marshal. "Keep a
civil tongue in your head, young woman."
"Why, you long-whiskered old--" began the lady, but her husband spared
the Marshal a whirlwind of revelations by taking her arm and leading her
to the rear of the store, where for some minutes they were in close and
earnest conference.
"The thing to do," said Mort Fryback, "is to take this box down to the
crick an' drop it in, all locked and everything. That will put an end to
the cussed things, better'n any other way I know."
A furious commotion took place inside the box, preventing further
discussion on the part of the retreating observers. It was as if a dozen
huge and powerful serpents were exerting every effort to escape.
The voice of Mrs. Fox, clear as a bell, assailed them from behind.
"They're hungry, poor things," she cried. "Perfectly ravenous."
"That settles it," said Marshal Crow. "We've got to git rid of 'em if we
have to set fire to your store, Mort. They're terrible when they haven't
been fed fer a long time. Swaller pigs an' sheep--_and_ children whole,
they say."
Mr. Fox approached. He was now very polite and ingratiating.
"Permit me," he observed, "to offer a solution. If you will give me a
bunch of keys, my friend, I will remove the case to my room and open
it--if possible. No harm will come to anybody, and in one hour or so, my
wife and I will be on our way. My automobile is in your local garage,
Mr. Hawk, and we can be ready to start as soon as we have fed and aired
the--er--shall we say contents?"
"You arrest him, Anderson," cried Mrs. Bloomer. "Hold him till I
estimate the damage that's been done to my property. He's got to pay fer
that before he can get out of this town."
"I guess you'd better step over to the calaboose with me, mister," said
Anderson firmly. "And you too, ma'am. This here lady prefers charges
against you, an' it's my duty to--"
"What is the charge, madam?" demanded Mr. Fox, lighting a cigarette.
"Never mind," said the Marshal; "we'll attend to that later."
Mr. Fryback put in a word at this point. "Yes, but who's going to take
charge of this here box? It can't stay here in my place. First thing you
know the derned things will gnaw a hole in the side and git out."
"If it is not too far, Mr. Officer, I should be happy to carry the box
over to the lock-up--unless, of course, some one else will volunteer. I
see quite a number of citizens looking in through the window. Doubtless
some of them might--"
"How long after a man's been on a bad spree is he likely to think he
sees snakes?" demanded Anderson, struck with an idea.
"The time varies," replied Mr. Fox, rather startled.
"Alf ain't been tight in a good many years," mused the Marshal. "I guess
it would be safe to let him carry 'em. Don't you think so, Mort?"
"Him and Newt Spratt," said Mort. "Newt's always braggin' about not
being afraid of anything."
"Well, perhaps it would be just as well not to tell 'em what's in this
here box," said Anderson. He turned to the pair of strangers. "Only they
ain't going to carry it to the calaboose. They're going to carry it to
the crick, an' throw it in."
The young woman uttered a cry of dismay, and her husband uttered
something distinctly out of place, for Mrs. Bloomer again told him he
ought to be ashamed of himself.
After a few whispered words in the ear of the distracted young woman,
Mr. Fox turned to the others.
"I'll tell you what we'll do, gentlemen," said he, and then added, with
a polite bow to the corpulent Mrs. Bloomer, "and ladies. Mrs. Fox and I
had planned giving a little exhibition at the hotel, but that now seems
to be out of the question. Kindly bear in mind that we are not visiting
your little city on pleasure bent. We are here strictly for business. As
a rule we do not make one-night stands. But we have been attracted to
your charming city almost against our will--although, I may add, it was
at the earnest invitation of one of your most important denizens--I
should say citizens. You will agree, I am sure, that it would hardly pay
us to visit a place like this unless we were reasonably assured of
something in the way of pecuniary benefits. You may not know it,
gentlemen, but we have had a bona-fide offer of one hundred dollars--and
that isn't to be sneezed at, is it? We--Please bear with me, Mr. Hawk. I
shall not detain you--"
"My name is Mr. Crow," snapped Anderson.
"Sorry," apologized Fox. "I fear I confused you with the celebrated
Hawkshaw, the detective."
Mr. Crow turned purple.
"That's what Harry Squires, the reporter on the _Banner_, calls him most
of the time," volunteered Mort Fryback. "That, an' Shellback Holmes."
"Such is fame," said Mr. Fox agreeably. "Well, to get right down to
cases, Mrs. Fox and I propose that you allow us to give our little
exhibition in the Town Hall,--if you have one--and--"
"Not much!" roared Anderson. "I've had enough of this talk. I'm going to
take action at once." He flung open the front door and addressed the
group in front of the store, now increased to nearly a score, including
several scattered women and children--and Ed Higgins' dog. "I call on
all you men to assist me in surrounding the Grand View Hotel. There is
dangerous work ahead, and I want only the bravest,--wait a second, Newt,
don't go away,--and most determined men in town to volunteer. Here,
Mort, you hand out some axes, an' pitchforks, an' crowbars, an'--"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, George," cried Mrs. Fox frantically, "don't let
them do it. Stop them!"
But the stranger motioned for her to be silent.
* * * * *
Some time was spent in explaining the situation to the posse, and in
stationing a group of the hardiest men beneath certain windows of the
second floor back. During this arrangement of forces, three of the
bravest men in Tinkletown had to go to the post office for some very
important letters, and two more rushed over to see that they came back.
Anderson Crow marshalled a dozen or more able-bodied conscripts in Main
Street, preparatory to a frontal attack on the suite at the head of the
stairway. He had commandeered a double-barreled shotgun belonging to
Bill Kepsal, and with this he proposed to "shoot the daylights" out of
the serpent through the transom if it hadn't crawled under the bed where
he couldn't "get a bead on it."
In the meantime, Mr. Fox had carried the big black box out of Fryback's
store, and his wife was now standing guard over it on the porch of the
Grand View Hotel.
[Illustration: _His wife was now standing guard over it on the porch of
the Grand View Hotel_]
Marshal Crow was issuing commands right and left, and the squad,
augmented by a step-ladder from the hardware shop, was about to enter
the hotel, when Mrs. Fox uttered an excited little shriek, and then
these desolating words:
"Oh, George, I've found it! I've got the key. It was away down in my
muff."
Before any action could be taken to restrain the impetuous young woman,
she was inserting the key in the lock!
Those nearest her collided violently with those farther away, and in
less time than it takes to mention it, there was no one within a radius
of fifty feet--except a new arrival on the scene.
To the intense horror of Mort Fryback, his wife emerged from the Grand
View Hotel and entered the danger zone.
"Hey, Maude!" he bellowed. "Keep away from that! For the love of--" He
clapped his hand over his eyes. Mrs. Fryback had reached the side of
the eager Mrs. Fox just as that lady lifted the lid of the box.
Now, Mrs. Fryback was Mort's third wife; according to longevity
statistics, she was much too young to die. As a matter of fact, she was
little more than a bride. That probably accounts for the brand-new mink
coat and muff she was sporting. Moreover, it accounts for Mort's
surprising mendacity and even more amazing humility in relation to the
taking-off of Mike. No doubt in similar circumstances, he would have
told his second wife, who died when she was pretty well along in years,
that he'd show her who was boss in his home, and if she didn't like what
he did to Mike, she could lump it. But, alas, between a vacillating
young wife who has you under her thumb and a constant old one who has
been thoroughly squashed under yours for a great many years, there is a
world of difference.
Others who stared in horror at the picture on the porch, groaned audibly
as young Mrs. Fox looked up into the face of the unsuspecting victim and
smiled. Thus encouraged, young Mrs. Fryback, disdaining death, smiled in
return and stooped over to look into the depths of that unspeakable box.
Instead of starting back in alarm, she uttered a shrill little cry of
delight, and dropping to her knees plunged both hands into the nest of
wriggling horrors!
Lucius Fry, who had hastily set up the step-ladder, and was now
balancing himself somewhat precariously at the top of it, let out a
lugubrious howl.
"She's a goner!" he announced.
The two young women had their heads close together and were conversing.
Marshal Crow, armed with the double barreled shotgun, began a cautious
circuitous advance, his finger on the trigger.
He stopped short when about twenty feet from the women, and
spasmodically pulled the trigger. There is no telling what might have
happened if the gun had been loaded.
Mr. Fox had deliberately overturned the box and--out scampered three
sprightly Boston terrier puppies!
Ten minutes later all but one of Mort Fryback's farming utensils were
back in stock. The missing implement, a hatchet, was furtively on its
way to the barber-shop of one Ebenezer January, coloured.
Mr. and Mrs. Fryback, Marshal Crow and the amiable Foxes discussed the
"points" of the frolicsome puppies in the rear of the hardware store.
"I just adore this one, Mrs. Fox," said Mrs. Fryback, pointing to a
rugged little rascal who was patiently gnawing at Mr. Fryback's peg-leg.
"Do you really recommend him as the best of the lot, Mr. Fox?" she
inquired, turning her shining eyes upon the gentleman.
"Absolutely," said Mr. Fox. "Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Crow?"
"Ab-so-lutely," said Anderson.
"Then I'll take him," said Mort's wife, and Mort not only sighed but
wiped a fine coat of moisture from his brow. "One hundred dollars is the
very least you will take?"
"The very least, Mrs. Fryback. He is a thoroughbred, you know. My
kennels are famous, as you doubtless noted in my advertisement in _Town
and Country_--and I can personally guarantee every pup that comes out of
them. In your letter to me, Mrs. Fryback, you stated that only the best
I had on hand would be considered. The mother of these puppies has a
pedigree a yard long, and the father, as I mentioned before, is Stubbs
the Twelfth. Nothing more need be said. The mother, Bonnie Bridget, you
have just seen. Stubbs the Twelfth belongs to a millionaire in Albany.
Allow me to congratulate you, madam,"--extending his hand,--"on having
secured one of the finest dogs in America. And you also, Mr. Fryback, on
having a wife who is such a discriminating judge of thoroughbreds."
Mr. Fryback looked a trifle startled, but said nothing.
"If you ever come to our town, Mr. Crow, I hope you will look us up,"
broke in Mr. Fox. "Our place is about two miles out in the country. By
the way, has Mrs. Crow a good dog--I mean one that she can be proud
of?"
"She has a thoroughbred setter," said Marshal Crow, compressing his
lips.
"A hundred dollars is a lot of money fer a dog," murmured Mr. Fryback.
He met his wife's eye for a second and then added: "But, of course, my
wife has just lost one that was worth a thousand dollars, so--I guess it
ain't so much, after all."
"Marmaduke was a really wonderful dog, Mrs. Fox," vouchsafed Mort's
wife, assuming a sad and pensive expression.
"I am sure he must have been," said Mrs. Fox.
"One hundred dollars is very cheap, sir, for a thoroughbred Boston
terrier in these days," said Mr. Fox. "Isn't that so, Mr. Crow?"
"Cheap as dirt," said Anderson.
"Mortimer, will you please give Mr. Fox the money?" said Mrs. Fryback.
"And, by the way, Mr. Crow, I hope you take down all those reward
notices at once. I wouldn't know what to do with Marmaduke now, even if
some one did bring him back to me."
"I know what I'd order you to do with him," said Anderson, meeting
Mort's melancholy gaze at last.
"What, may I inquire?"
"I'd order you to bury him," said the town marshal, speaking in his
capacity as chairman of the Board of Health.
Mrs. Fryback looked at him steadily for a second or two, and then slowly
closed an eye.
SHADES OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN!
It wasn't often that Marshal Crow acknowledged that he was in a
quandary. When he _did_ find himself in that rare state of mind, he
invariably went to Harry Squires, the editor of the _Banner_, for
counsel--but never for advice. He had in the course of a protracted
career as preserver of the peace and dignity of Tinkletown, found
himself confronted by seemingly unsolvable mysteries, but he always had
succeeded in unravelling them, one way or another, to his own complete
satisfaction. Only the grossest impudence on the part of the present
chronicler would permit the tiniest implication to creep into this or
any other chapter of his remarkable history that might lead the reader
to suspect that he did not solve them to the complete satisfaction of
any one else. So, quite obviously, the point is not one to be debated.
Now, as nearly every one knows, Tinkletown is a temperance place. There
is no saloon there,--unless, of course, one chooses to be rather nasty
about Brubaker's Drugstore. Away back in the Seventies,--soon after the
Civil War, in fact,--an enterprising but misguided individual attempted
to establish a bar-room at the corner of Main and Sickle Streets. He
opened the Sunlight Bar and for one whole day and night revelled in the
conviction that he had found a silver mine. The male population of
Tinkletown, augmented by a swarm of would-be inebriates from all the
farms within a radius of ten miles, flocked to the Sunlight Bar and
proceeded to get gloriously and collectively drunk on the contents of
the two kegs of lager beer that constituted an experimental stock in
trade.
The next morning the women of Tinkletown started in to put the Sunlight
Bar out of business. They did not, as you may suspect, hurl stones at
the place, neither did they feloniously enter and wreak destruction with
axes, hatchets and hoe-handles. Not a bit of it. They were peaceful,
law-abiding women, not sanguinary amazons. What they did was perfectly
simple.
It is possible, even probable, that they were the pioneer "pickets" of
our benighted land. At any rate, bright and early on the second day of
the Sunlight Bar, the ladies of Tinkletown brought their knitting and
their sewing down to the corner of Main and Sickle streets and sat
themselves down in front of the shrinking "silver mine." They came with
rocking-chairs, and camp-chairs, and milk-stools, and benches, too, and
instead of chanting a doleful lay, they chattered in a blithe and merry
fashion. There was no going behind the fact, however, that these
smiling, complacent women formed the Death Watch that was to witness the
swift, inevitable finish of the Sunlight Bar.
[Illustration: _These smiling, complacent women formed the Death Watch
that was to witness the swift, inevitable finish of the Sunlight Bar_]
They came in relays, and they stayed until the lights went out in the
desolate house of cheer. The next day they were on hand again, and the
next, and still the next. Fortunately for them, but most unluckily for
the proprietor of the Sunlight Bar, the month was August: they could
freeze him out, but he couldn't freeze them out.
Sheepish husbands and sons passed them by, usually on the opposite
sidewalk, but not one of them had the hardihood to extend a helping hand
to the expiring saloon. At the end of a week, the Sunlight Bar drew its
last breath. It died of starvation. The only mourner at its bier was the
bewildered saloon-keeper, who engaged a dray to haul the remains to
Boggs City, the County seat, and it was he who said, as far back as
1870, that he was in favour of taking the vote away from the men and
giving it exclusively to the women.