been buying up apples and grinding them and making cider of them as fast
as they could cask it ever since last January. Making it right under
your nose, and this is the first you've seen of it. There's enough hard
cider in Tinkletown at this minute to pickle an army. See those bottles
over there under Bill's stool? Well, old Deacon Rank left 'em there
because he was afraid he'd bust 'em when he made his exit through that
window. He told Bill Smith he could keep them, if he would assume his
indebtedness to this office,--two dollars and a quarter,--and he also
told Bill that he could guarantee that it was good stuff! We've got
visible proof of it here, and we also know how the damned old rascal
went about testing the quality of his wares. He has tried it out on the
most highly respected ladies in town, that's what he's done,--and why?
Because it was the _cheapest_ way to do it. He didn't have to waste more
than a quart on the whole bunch of 'em. Sure fire stuff! And there are
barrels of it in this town, Mr. Shellback Holmes, waiting to be
converted into song. Now, the first thing you've got to do is to take
this unfortunate result of prohibition home and put her to bed."
Anderson sat down heavily.
"My sakes, Harry,--I--I--why, this is turrible! My wife drunk,
an'--an'--Mrs. Jones, an' Mrs. Nixon, an'--"
"Yes, sir," said Harry heartlessly; "they probably are lit up like the
sunny side of the moon, and what's more, my friend, if they _do_ take it
into their poor, beaddled heads to go out and paint the town, there
won't be any stopping 'em. Hold on! Didn't you hear what I said about
the case in hand? You take her home, do you hear?"
"But--how am I to get her home? I--I can't carry her through the
streets," groaned the harassed marshal.
"Hire an automobile, or a delivery-wagon, or--what say?"
"I was just sayin' that maybe I could get Lem Hawkins to loan me his
hearse."
Mr. Squires put his hand over his mouth and looked away. When he turned
back to the unhappy official, his voice was gentler.
"You leave her to me, old fellow. I'll take care of her. She can stay
here till after dark and I'll see that she gets home all right."
"By gosh, Harry, you're a real friend. I--I won't ferget this,--no, sir,
never!"
"What are you going to do first?"
"I'm goin' to get my wife out of that den of iniquity and take her
home!" said Anderson resolutely.
"Whether she's willing,--or not?"
"Don't you worry. I got that all thought out. If she won't let me take
her home, I'll let on as if I'm full and then she'll insist on takin' me
home."
With that he was gone.
The crowd in front of the _Banner_ office now numbered at least a
hundred. Mr. Crow stopped at the top of the steps and swiftly ran his
eye over the excited throng. He was thinking hard and quite
rapidly--for him. All the while the crowd was shouting questions at him,
he was deliberately counting noses. Suddenly he held up his hand. There
was instant, expectant silence.
"All husbands who possess wives in the Woman's Foreign Missionary
Society kindly step forward. Make way there, you people,--let 'em
through. This way, Newt,--an' you, Alf,--come on, Elmer K.,--I said
'wives,' Mrs. Fry, not husbands. All husbands please congregate in the
alley back of the _Banner_ office an' wait fer instructions. Don't ask
questions. Just do as I tell you. Hey, you kids! Run over an' tell Mort
Fryback an' Ed Higgins an' Situate M. Jones I want 'em right away,--an'
George Brubaker. Tell him to lock up his store if he has to, but to come
at once. Now, you women keep back! This is fer men only."
In due time a troubled, anxious group of men sallied forth from the
alley back of the _Banner_ office, and, headed by Anderson Crow, marched
resolutely down Sickle Street to Maple and advanced upon the house of
Deacon Rank.
The song service was in full blast. The men stopped at the bottom of the
yard and listened with sinking hearts.
"That's my wife," said Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer, a bleak look in
his eyes. "She knows that tune by heart."
"Which tune?" asked Mort Fryback, cocking his ear.
"Why, the one she's singin'," said Elmer. "Now listen,--it goes this
way." He hummed a few bars of 'The Rosary.' "Don't you get it? There!
Why, you must be deef. I can't hear anything else."
"The only one I can make out is 'Tipperary.' Is that the one she's
singin'?"
"Certainly not. I said it goes _this_ way. That's somebody else you
hear, Mort."
"Hear that?" cried Ed Higgins excitedly. "That's 'Sweet Alice, Ben
Bolt!' My wife's favourite. My Lord, Anderson, what's to be done?"
"Keep still!" ordered Anderson. "I'm tryin' to see if I c'n make out my
wife's singin'!"
"Well, we got to do somethin'," groaned Newt Spratt, whose wife was
organist in the Pond Road Church. "She'll bust that piano all to smash
if she keeps on like that."
"Come on, gentlemen," said Anderson, compressing his lips. "Remember
now, every man selects his own wife. Every--"
"Wait a minute, Anderson," pleaded George Brubacker. "It'll take more
than me to manage my wife if she gets stubborn."
"It ain't our fault if you married a woman twice as big as you are," was
the marshal's stern rejoinder. "Now, remember the plan. We're just
droppin' in to surprise 'em, to sort of join in the service. Don't fer
the land's sake, let 'em see we're uneasy about 'em. We got to use
diplomacy. Look pleasant, ever'body,--look happy. Now, then,--forward
march! Laugh, dern you, Alf!"
Once more they advanced, chatting volubly, and with faces supposed to be
wholly free from anxiety. The merest glance, however, would have
penetrated the mask of unconcern. Every man's eye belied his lips.
"I make a motion that we tar an' feather Deacon Rank," said Newt Spratt,
as the foremost neared the porch.
Anderson halted them abruptly.
"I want to warn you men right now, that I'm going to search all the
cellars in town tomorrow, so you might as well be prepared to empty all
your cider into Smock's Crick. You don't need to say you ain't got any
on hand. I've been investigatin' for several weeks, an' I want to tell
you right here an' now that I've got every cask an' every bottle of hard
cider in Tinkletown spotted. I know what's become of every derned apple
that was raised in this township last year."
Dead silence followed this heroic speech. Citizens looked at each other,
and Situate M. Jones might have been heard to mutter something about "an
all-seeing Providence."
Ed Higgins lamely explained that he had "put up a little for vinegar,"
but Anderson merely smiled.
The front door of the house flew open and several of the first ladies of
Tinkletown crowded into view. An invisible choir was singing the
Doxology.
"Hello, boys!" called out Mrs. Jones, cheerily. "Come right in! Where's
zat nice old deacon?"
"Been waiting for him for nawful long time," said Mrs. Pratt. "Couldn't
wait any louder,--I mean longer."
"You had it right the first time," said her husband.
"Just in time for Doxology," called out Mrs. Jones. "Then we're all
going down town to hol' open-air temp-rance meet-meeting."
* * * * *
Late that evening, Marshal Crow mounted the steps leading to Dr. Brown's
office and rang the bell. He rang it five or six times without getting
any response. Then he opened the door and walked in. The doctor was out.
On a table inside the door lay the slate on which people left word for
him to come to their houses as soon as he returned. The Marshal put on
his glasses and took up the pencil to write. One side of the slate was
already filled with hurried scribbling. He squinted and with difficulty
made out that Dr. Brown was wanted immediately at the homes of Situate
M. Jones, Abbie Nixon, Newton Spratt, Mort Fryback, Professor Rank, Rev.
Maltby and Joseph P. Singer. He sighed and shook his head sadly. Then he
moistened a finger and erased the second name on the list, that of Mrs.
Abbie Nixon.
"Husbands first," he muttered in justification of his action in
substituting the following line:
"Come at once. A. Crow, Marshal of Tinkletown."
Compunction prevailed, however. He wrote the word "over" at the bottom
and, turning the slate over, cleared his conscience by jotting down Mrs.
Nixon's "call" at the top of the reverse side. Replacing it on the
table, he went away. Virtue was its own reward in this instance at
least, for the worthy marshal neglected to put the slate down as he had
found it. Mrs. Nixon's "call" alone was visible.
He set out to find Harry Squires. That urbane gentleman was smoking his
reportorial corn-cob in the rear of Lamson's store. Except for Lamson's
clerk, who had seized the rare opportunity to delve uninterruptedly into
the mysteries of the latest "Nick Carter," the store was empty. The
usual habitues were absent.
"Did you get her home?" inquired Anderson in a low, cautious tone.
"I did," said Harry.
"See anything of the deacon?"
"No; but Bill Smith did. Bill saw him down at the crick an hour or so
ago, knocking in the heads of three or four barrels. Do you know what
I've been thinking, Anderson? If somebody would only empty a barrel or
so of olive oil into Smock's Crick before morning, we'd have the
foundation for the largest supply of French dressing ever created in the
history of the world."
Mr. Crow looked scandalized. "Good gosh, Harry, ain't we had enough
scandal in this here town today without addin' anything French to it?"
* * * * *
The only moral to be attached to this story lies in the brief statement
that Mrs. Crow's indisposition, slight in duration though it was, so
occupied Mr. Crow's attention that by the time he was ready to begin his
search the second night after the song service, there wasn't so much as
a pint of hard cider to be found in Tinkletown. This condition was due
in a large measure, no doubt, to the fact that Smock's Creek is an
unusually swift little stream. It might even be called turbulent.
"JAKE MILLER HANGS HIMSELF"
"Have you heard the latest news?" inquired Newt Spratt, speaking in a
hushed voice. He addressed Uncle Dad Simms, the town's oldest
inhabitant, whom he met face to face at the corner of Main and Sickle
streets one fine morning in May. Now any one in Tinkletown would tell
you that it was the sheerest folly to address Uncle Dad in a hushed
voice. Mr. Spratt knew this as well as he knew his own name, so it
should be easy to understand that the "news" was of a somewhat
awe-inspiring nature. Ordinarily Newt was a loud-mouthed, jovial soul;
you could hear him farther and usually longer than any other male
citizen in Tinkletown. But now, he spoke in a hushed voice.
Uncle Dad put his hand up to his left ear and said "Hey?" This seemed to
bring Mr. Spratt to his senses. He started violently, stared hard for a
moment at the octogenarian, and then strode off down Main street,
shaking his head as much as to say, "There must be something the matter
with me. Nobody ever speaks to him unless he _has_ to."
And Uncle Dad, after gazing for a long time at the retreating figure,
resumed his shuffling progress up Main street, pleasantly satisfied that
Newt had gone to the trouble to tell him it was a nice day.
Although it would not have occurred to Newt, in his dismal state of
mind, to look upon the day as a nice one, nevertheless it was. The sun
was shining brightly, (but without Newt's knowledge), and the air was
soft and balmy and laden with the perfume of spring. Birds were
twittering in the new green foliage of the trees, but Newt heard them
not; dogs frisked in the sunshine, wagging their tongues and tails, but
Newt saw them not; hens cackled, horses whinnied, children laughed, and
all the world was set to music, but Newt was not a happy man.
He was not a happy man for the simple reason that everybody else in town
had heard the "news" long before it reached him. For half-an-hour or
more he had been putting that same old question to every one he met;
indeed, he even went out of his way five or six blocks to ring the front
door bell at the home of William Grimes, night watchman at Smock's
Warehouse, rousing him from a sound sleep in order to impart the "news"
to him, only to have Bill call him a lot of hard names while making it
clear that he had heard it before going to bed for the day.
The more Newt thought of it, the more he realized that it was his duty
to go back and look up Uncle Dad Simms, even though it meant yelling his
head off when he found him; it was a moral certainty that the only
person in Tinkletown who _had_n't heard it was Uncle Dad,--and he would
take a lot of telling.
The _Weekly Banner_ would not be out till the following day; for at
least twenty hours Uncle Dad would remain in the densest ignorance of
the sensation that had turned Tinkletown completely upside down.
Somebody ought to tell him. Somebody ought to tell poor old Uncle Dad
Simms, that was all there was about it.
Moved by a sharp thrill of benevolence, Mr. Spratt retraced his steps,
an eager look in his eyes. He found the old man standing in the broad,
open door of Bill Kepsal's blacksmith shop. The blacksmith's assistant
was banging away with might and main at his anvil, and Uncle Dad wore a
pleased, satisfied smile on his thin old lips. He always said he loved
to stand there and listen to the faint, faraway music of the hammer on
the anvil, so different from the hammers and anvils they used to have
when he was a boy,--when they were so blamed noisy you couldn't hear
yourself think.
Newt took him by the arm and led him away. He was going to tell him the
"news," but he wasn't going to tell it to him there. The only place to
tell Uncle Dad anything was over in the Town Hall, provided it was
unoccupied, and thither he conducted the expectant old man. As they
mounted the steps leading to the Hall, Uncle Dad's pleased expression
developed into something distinctly audible--something resembling a
cackle of joy. Mr. Spratt favoured him with a sharp, apprehensive
glance.
"Are they goin' to hold the inquest as soon as all this?" shouted Uncle
Dad, putting his lips as close as possible to Newt's ear.
Newt stopped in his tracks.
"Have _you_ heard it?" he bellowed.
"What say?"
"I say, _have you heard it_?"
"Speak up! Speak up!" complained Uncle Dad. "You needn't be afraid of
_him_ hearin' you, Newt. He's been dead for six or eight hours."
"My God!" groaned Newt.
For the second time that morning he left Uncle Dad high and dry, and
started swiftly homeward. There was the possible, but remote chance that
his wife hadn't heard the news,--and if she had heard it, she'd hear
from him! He'd let her know what kind of a wife she was!
Never, within memory, had he failed to be the first person in Tinkletown
to hear the news, and here he was on this stupendous occasion, the last
of them all. And why? Because he had taken that one morning to perform a
peculiarly arduous and intensive bit of hard work up in the attic of his
wife's house. He had chosen the attic because Mrs. Spratt rather
vehemently had refused to let him use the parlour, or even the kitchen.
And all the time that he was up in the attic, working his head off
trying to teach his new fox terrier pup how to stand on its hind legs
and jump over a broom stick, this startling piece of news was sweeping
from one end of Tinkletown to the other.
Never, said Newt firmly, as he hurried homeward by the back
streets,--never would he do another day's work in his life, if this was
to be the result of honest toil. And what's more, he hadn't even
received a single word of praise from his wife when he descended from
the attic and triumphantly told her what he had accomplished,--he and
the pup between them--after three hours of solid, painstaking endeavour.
Mrs. Spratt had merely said: "If you could learn that pup how to split
firewood or milk a cow or repair the picket fence or something like
that, you might be worth your salt, Newt Spratt. As it is, you ain't."
As Newt turned gloomily into the alley leading up to his back gate, he
espied the Marshal of Tinkletown, Anderson Crow, leisurely approaching
from the opposite direction. Mr. Crow, on catching sight of Newt,
hastily removed something from his mouth and held it behind his back.
Perceiving that it was nobody but Newt Spratt, he restored the object to
his lips and began puffing away at it,--but not until he had sent a
furtive glance over his shoulder.
"What you doin' back here?" inquired Newt, somewhat offensively, as the
two drew closer together. "Lookin' fer clues?"
Anderson again removed the corn-cob pipe, spat accurately over the hand
with which he shielded his straggling chin whiskers, and remarked:
"Do _you_ see anything wrong with this here pipe, Newt?" he asked,
gazing rather pensively at the object.
"I don't _see_ anything wrong with it," said Newt. "Still, I think
you're mighty sensible not to smoke it any place except in an alley. Why
don't you get a new one? They only cost ten cents. If you got a new one
once in a while,--say once a year,--your wife wouldn't order you out of
the house every time you light it."
"She don't order me out of the house when I light it," retorted
Anderson. "'Cause why? 'Cause I never light it till I get two or three
blocks away from home."
The subject apparently being exhausted, the two alley-farers lapsed into
characteristic silence. Mr. Spratt leaned rather wearily against his own
back fence, while Mr. Crow accepted the support of a telephone pole.
Presently the former started to say something about the weather, but got
no farther than the first two or three words when an astounding
conjecture caused him to break off abruptly. He glanced at the old
marshal, swallowed hard a couple of times, and then hopefully ventured
the time-honoured question:
"Anything new, Anderson?"
The marshal responded with a slow, almost imperceptible shake of the
head. He was gazing reflectively at a couple of English sparrows perched
on one of the telephone wires some distance down the line.
Newt experienced a sudden, overwhelming joy. Caution, however, and a
certain fear that he might be mistaken, advised him to go slow. There
remained the possibility that Anderson might be capable of simulation.
"Where's the body?" he inquired, casually.
Marshal Crow's gaze deserted the sparrows and fixed itself on Newt's
ear.
"The what?"
His companion exhaled a tremendous breath of satisfaction. Life was
suddenly worth living. The Marshal of Tinkletown had not heard the
"news." The marshal, _himself_!
"Well, by Gosh!" exclaimed the revivified Mr. Spratt. "Where have you
been at?"
"That's my business," snapped Anderson.
"All I got to say is that you ought to be attendin' to it, if it's your
business," said Newt loftily. "You're the marshal of this here town,
ain't you? And everybody in town knows that Jake Miller is dead except
you. You're a fine marshal." There was withering scorn in Newt's voice.
He even manifested an inclination to walk off and leave the marshal
without further enlightenment.
Anderson made a valiant effort to conceal his astonishment. Assuming a
more or less indifferent air, he calmly remarked:
"I knowed Jake was a little under the weather, but I didn't think it was
serious? When did he die?"
"He didn't die," said Newt. "He hung himself."
"What's that?" gasped Anderson, his jaw sagging.
"Hung himself some time last night," went on Newt joyously. "From a
rafter in Ed Higgins's livery stable. With a clothesline. Kicked a
step-ladder out from under himself. Why, even Uncle Dad Simms has heard
about it. Ed found him when he went out to--wait a second! I'm goin'
your way. What's the rush? He's been dead six or eight hours. He can't
escape. He's down in Hawkins's undertaking place. Hey! You dropped your
pipe. Don't you want it any--"
"If you're goin' my way, you'll have to _run_," called out Marshal Crow
as he unlimbered his long legs and made for the mouth of the alley. He
was not running, but Newt, being an undersized individual, had no other
means of keeping up with him unless he obeyed the sardonic behest. For
ten or fifteen rods, Mr. Spratt jogged faithfully at the heels of the
leader, and then suddenly remembered that it was a long way to Hawkins's
Undertaking Emporium in Sickle street,--at least an eighth of a mile as
the crow flies,--and as he already had had a hard day's work, he slowed
down to a walk and then to a standstill. He concluded to wait till some
one came along in a wagon or an automobile. There wasn't any use wasting
his valuable breath in running. Much better to save it for future use.
In the meantime, by standing perfectly still, he could ruminate to his
heart's content.
Marshal Crow's long strides soon carried him to the corner of Maple
Street, where he made a sharp turn to the right, shooting a swift look
over his shoulder as he did so. His late companion was leaning against a
tree. Satisfied that he had completely thrown Mr. Spratt off the trail,
Anderson took a short cut through Justice of the Peace Robb's front and
back yards and eventually emerged into Main Street, where he slackened
his pace to a dignified saunter.
He caught sight of Alf Reesling, the reformed town drunkard, holding
conversation from the sidewalk with some one in a second story window of
Mrs. Judy O'Ryan's boarding house, half a block away.
"Hello!" shouted Alf, discovering the marshal. "Here he comes now. Where
you been all morning, Andy? I been huntin' everywhere for you. Something
horrible has happened. I just stopped to tell Judy about it."
The marshal stopped, and gazed upon Alf with mild interest. He nodded
carelessly to Mrs. O'Ryan in the upstairs window, and addressed the
following significant remark to Alf:
"I guess I've got Jake's motive purty well established, Alf. You needn't
ask me what I've unearthed, because I won't tell you. It's a nice day,
ain't it, Judy?"
Before Mrs. O'Ryan could affirm or deny this polite bit of information,
Alf cried out:
"You don't mean to say you _know_ about it?"
"The rain yesterday and day before has brought your lilacs out splendid,
Judy," said Anderson, ignoring him.
"I was up to your house before eight o'clock, and your wife said you'd
gone out in the country to practise your new Decoration Day speech,
Anderson. How in thunder did you find out about Jake?"
Marshal Crow turned upon the speaker with some severity. "See here, Alf,
are you tryin' to act like Newt Spratt?"
That was a deadly insult to Alf.
"What do you mean?" he demanded hotly.
"Nothin'--except that Newt had the same kind of an idee in his head that
you seem to have got into yours. Next time you see Newt you tell him I
been laughin' myself almost sick over the way I fooled him,--the blamed
iggoramus." Having planted a seed that was intended to bear the fruit of
justification, the venerable marshal decided that now was the time to
prepare himself against anything further in the shape of surprise. So he
linked arms with Alf and started off down the street.
"Now, see here, Alf," he began, somewhat sternly. "I won't stand for any
beatin' about the bush from you. You got to tell me the whole truth an'
nothin' but the truth, and if your story hangs together and agrees with
what I've already worked out,--I'll see that you get fair treatment
and--"
Alf stopped short. "What in sassafras are you talkin' about? What
story?"
"Begin at the beginnin' and tell me where you was last night, and _early
this morning_, and where and when you last saw Jake Miller."
The marshal's manner was decidedly accusative, although tempered by
sadness. Something in his voice betrayed a great and illy concealed
regret that this life-long friend had got himself so seriously entangled
in the Jacob Miller affair.
"Where was I last night and this morning?" repeated the astonished Alf.
"Percisely," said Anderson, tightening his grip on Alf's arm.
"In bed," said Alf succinctly.
"Come, now," warned the marshal; "none of that. I want the truth out of
you. When did you last see Jake Miller,--and what was he doing?"
"I saw him about half an hour ago, and he wasn't doin' anything."
"I mean, before he came to his untimely end."
"I don't know what you're drivin' at, but if it gives you any
satisfaction I c'n say that the last time I saw him alive was yesterday
afternoon about four o'clock. He was unloadin' some baled hay over at
Ed's feed-yard and--that's all."
"How was he actin'?"
"He was actin' like a man unloadin' hay."
"Did he appear to have anything on his mind? I mean anything more than
usual?"
"Couldn't say."
"Did he look pale or upset-like?"