Anderson Crow, Detective

by George Barr McCutcheon

  SHADES OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN!

  It wasn't often that Marshal Crow acknowledged that he was in aquandary. When he _did_ find himself in that rare state of mind, heinvariably went to Harry Squires, the editor of the _Banner_, forcounsel--but never for advice. He had in the course of a protractedcareer as preserver of the peace and dignity of Tinkletown, foundhimself confronted by seemingly unsolvable mysteries, but he always hadsucceeded in unravelling them, one way or another, to his own completesatisfaction. Only the grossest impudence on the part of the presentchronicler would permit the tiniest implication to creep into this orany other chapter of his remarkable history that might lead the readerto suspect that he did not solve them to the complete satisfaction ofany one else. So, quite obviously, the point is not one to be debated.

  Now, as nearly every one knows, Tinkletown is a temperance place. Thereis no saloon there,--unless, of course, one chooses to be rather nastyabout Brubaker's Drugstore. Away back in the Seventies,--soon after theCivil War, in fact,--an enterprising but misguided individual attemptedto establish a bar-room at the corner of Main and Sickle Streets. Heopened the Sunlight Bar and for one whole day and night revelled in theconviction that he had found a silver mine. The male population ofTinkletown, augmented by a swarm of would-be inebriates from all thefarms within a radius of ten miles, flocked to the Sunlight Bar andproceeded to get gloriously and collectively drunk on the contents ofthe two kegs of lager beer that constituted an experimental stock intrade.

  The next morning the women of Tinkletown started in to put the SunlightBar out of business. They did not, as you may suspect, hurl stones atthe place, neither did they feloniously enter and wreak destruction withaxes, hatchets and hoe-handles. Not a bit of it. They were peaceful,law-abiding women, not sanguinary amazons. What they did was perfectlysimple.

  It is possible, even probable, that they were the pioneer "pickets" ofour benighted land. At any rate, bright and early on the second day ofthe Sunlight Bar, the ladies of Tinkletown brought their knitting andtheir sewing down to the corner of Main and Sickle streets and satthemselves down in front of the shrinking "silver mine." They came withrocking-chairs, and camp-chairs, and milk-stools, and benches, too, andinstead of chanting a doleful lay, they chattered in a blithe and merryfashion. There was no going behind the fact, however, that thesesmiling, complacent women formed the Death Watch that was to witness theswift, inevitable finish of the Sunlight Bar.

  _These smiling, complacent women formed the Death Watchthat was to witness the swift, inevitable finish of the Sunlight Bar_]

  They came in relays, and they stayed until the lights went out in thedesolate house of cheer. The next day they were on hand again, and thenext, and still the next. Fortunately for them, but most unluckily forthe proprietor of the Sunlight Bar, the month was August: they couldfreeze him out, but he couldn't freeze them out.

  Sheepish husbands and sons passed them by, usually on the oppositesidewalk, but not one of them had the hardihood to extend a helping handto the expiring saloon. At the end of a week, the Sunlight Bar drew itslast breath. It died of starvation. The only mourner at its bier was thebewildered saloon-keeper, who engaged a dray to haul the remains toBoggs City, the County seat, and it was he who said, as far back as1870, that he was in favour of taking the vote away from the men andgiving it exclusively to the women.

  Tinkletown, according to the sage observations of Uncle Dad Simms, wasrarely affected by the unsettling problems of the present day. This talkabout "labour unrest" was ridiculous, he said. If the remainder of theworld was anything like Tinkletown, labour didn't do much except rest.It was getting so that if a workin'-man had very far to walk to "git" tohis job, he had to step along purty lively if he wanted to arrive therein plenty of time to eat his lunch and start back home again. And as for"this here prohibition question," he didn't take any stock in it at all.Tinkletown had got along without liquor for more than a hundred yearsand he guessed it could get along for another century or two withoutmuch trouble, especially as it was only ten miles to Boggs City whereyou could get all you wanted to drink any day in the week. Besides, heargued, loudly and most violently, being so deaf that he had to strainhis own throat in order to hear himself, there wasn't anybody inTinkletown except Alf Reesling that ever wanted a drink, and even Alfwouldn't take it when you offered it to him.

  But in spite of Uncle Dad's sage conclusions, it was this veryprohibition question that was disturbing Anderson Crow. He saunteredinto the _Banner_ office late one afternoon in May and planked himselfdown in a chair beside the editor's desk. There was a troubled look inhis eyes, which gave way to vexation after he had made three or fourfruitless efforts to divert the writer's attention from the sheet of"copy paper" on which he was scribbling furiously.

  "How do you spell beverage, Anderson?" inquired Mr. Squires abruptly.

  "What kind of beverage?" demanded Mr. Crow.

  "Any kind, just so it's intoxicating. Never mind, I'll take a chance andspell it the easiest way. That's the way the dictionary spells it, so Iguess it's all right. Well, sir, what's on your mind?--besides your hat,I mean. You look worried."

  "I am worried. Have you any idee as to the size of the apple crop inthis neighbourhood last summer and fall, Harry?"

  "Not the least."

  "Well, sir, it was the biggest we've had since 1902, 'specially the fallpickin."

  "What's the idea? Do you want me to put something in the _Banner_ aboutBramble County's bumper crop of pippins?"

  "No. I just want to ask you if there's anything in this new prohibitionamendment against apple cider?"

  "Not that I'm aware of."

  "Well, do you know it's impossible to buy a good eatin' or cookin' applein this town today, Harry Squires?"

  "You don't say so! In spite of the big crop last fall?"

  "You could buy all you wanted last week, by the bushel or peck orbarrel,--finest, juiciest apples you ever laid your eyes on."

  "Well, I don't like apples anyway, so it doesn't mean much in my life."

  Anderson was silent for a moment or two, contemplating his foot withsingular intentness.

  "Was you ever drunk on hard cider?" he inquired at last,--transferringhis gaze to the rapidly moving hand that held the pencil.

  The reporter jabbed a period,--or "full stop," as they call it in acertain form of literature,--in the middle of a sentence, and looked upwith sudden interest.

  "Yes," he said, with considerable force. "I'll never forget it. You canget tighter on hard cider than anything else I know of."

  "Well, there you are," exclaimed the Marshal, banging his gnarled fiston the arm of the chair. "And as far as I c'n make out, there ain't nolaw ag'inst cider stayin' in the barrel long enough to get good andhard, an' what's more, there ain't no law ag'ainst sellin' cider, hardor sweet, is there?"

  "I get your point, Anderson. And I also get your deductions concerningthe mysterious disappearance of all the apples in Tinkletown. Apparentlywe are to have a shortage of dried apples this year, with an overflow ofhard cider instead. By George, it's interesting, to say the least. Looksas though an apple orchard is likely to prove more valuable than a goldmine, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, sir! 'Specially if you've got trees that bear in the fall. Fallapples make the best cider. They ain't so mushy. And as fer the fellerthat owns a cider-press, why, dog-gone it, he ought to be as rich asCrowsis."

  "I seem to recall that you have a cider-press on your farm on Crow'sMountain,--and a whacking good orchard, too. Are you thinking ofresigning as Marshal of Tinkletown?"

  "What say?"

  "I see you're not," went on Harry. "Of course you understand you can'tvery well manufacture hard cider and sell it and still retain youruntarnished reputation as a defender of the law."

  "I'm not figurin' on makin' hard cider," said Anderson, with someirritation. "You don't _make_ hard cider, Harry. It makes itself. Allyou do is to rack the apple juice off into a barrel, or something, witha little yeast added, and then leave it to do th
e work. It ferments an'then, if you want to, you rack it off again an' bottle it an'--well, geewhiz, how tight you c'n get on it if you ain't got sense enough to letit alone. But I ain't thinkin' about what I'm goin' to do, 'cause Iain't to do anything but make applebutter out of my orchard,--an' maybea little cider-vinegar fer home consumption. What's worryin' me is whatto do about all these other people around here. If they all take tomakin' cider this fall,--or even sooner,--an' if they bottle or cask itproper,--we'll have enough hard cider in this township to give the wholestate of New York the delirium trimmins."

  "I don't see that you can do anything, Anderson," said Squires, leaningback in his chair and puffing at his pipe. "You can't keep people frommaking cider, you know. And you can't keep 'em from drinking it.Besides, who's going to take the trouble to ascertain whether itcontains one-half of one percent alcohol? What interests me more thananything else is the possibility of this township becoming 'wet' inspite of itself,--an' to my certain knowledge, it has been up to now thebarrenest desert on God's green earth."

  "People are so all-fired contrary," Anderson complained. "For the lastfifty years the citizens of this town and its suburbs have been so deadset ag'inst liquor that if a man went up to Boggs City an' got a littletipsy he had to run all the way home so's he'd be out of breath when hegot there. Nobody ever kept a bottle of whiskey in his house, 'causenobody wanted it an' it would only be in the way. But now look at 'em!The minute the Government says they can't have it, they begin movin'things around in their cellars so's to make room fer the barrels they'regoing to put in. An' any day you want to drive out in the country youc'n see farmers an' hired men treatin' the apple-trees as if they wasthe tenderest plants a-growin'. I heard this mornin' that HenryWimpelmeyer is to put in a cider-press at his tanyard, an' old manSmock's turnin' his grist mill into an apple-mill. An' everybody ishoardin' apples, Harry. It beats the Dutch."

  "It's up to you to frustrate their nefarious schemes, Mr. Hawkshaw. Thefair name of the Commonwealth must be preserved. I use the wordadvisedly. It sounds a great deal better than 'pickled.' Now, do youwant me to begin a campaign in the _Banner_ against the indiscriminateand mendacious hardening of apple-cider, or am I to leave the situationentirely in your hands?"

  Marshal Crow arose. The fire of determination was in his ancient eye.

  "You leave it to me," said he, and strode majestically from the room.

  Encountering Deacon Rank in front of the _Banner_ office, he chancedthis somewhat offensive remark:

  "Say, Deacon, what's this I hear about you?"

  The deacon looked distinctly uneasy.

  "You can always hear a lot of things about me that aren't true," hesaid.

  "I ain't so sure about that," said Anderson, eyeing him narrowly. "Holdon! What's your hurry?"

  "I--I got to step in here and pay my subscription to the _Banner_," saidthe deacon.

  "Well, that's something nobody'll believe when they hear about it," saidAnderson. "It'll be mighty hard fer the proprieter of the _Banner_ tobelieve it after all these years."

  "Times have been so dog-goned hard fer the last couple of years, I ain'treally been able to--"

  "Too bad about you," broke in Anderson scornfully.

  "Everything costs so much in these days," protested the deacon. "I ain'thad a new suit of clothes fer seven or eight years. Can't afford 'em. Mywife was sayin' only last night she needed a new hat,--somethin' she canwear all the year round,--but goodness knows this ain't no time to bethinkin' of hats. She--"

  "She ain't had a new hat fer ten years," interrupted Anderson. "Nowonder the pore woman's ashamed to go to church."

  "What's that? Who says she's ashamed to go to church? Anybody that saysmy wife's ashamed to go to church is a--is a--well, he tells a story,that's all."

  "Well, why don't she go to church?"

  "'Tain't because she's ashamed of her hat, let me tell you that,Anderson Crow. It's a fine hat an' it's just as good as new. She'stryin' to save it, that's what she's tryin' to do. She knows it's got tolast her five or six years more, an' how in tarnation can she make itlast that long if she wears it all the time? Use a little common sense,can't you? Besides, I'll thank you not to stick your nose in my familyaffairs any--"

  "What's that you got in your pocket?" demanded Anderson, indicating thebulging sides of the deacon's overcoat.

  "None of your business!"

  "Now, don't you get hot. I ask you again, civil as possible,--what yougot in your pocket?"

  "I'm a respectable, tax-paying, church-going citizen of this here town,and I won't put up with any of your cussed insinuations," snapped thedeacon. "You act as if I'd stole something. You--"

  "I ain't accusin' you of stealin' anything. I'm only accusin' you ofhavin' something in your pocket. No harm in that, is there?"

  The deacon hesitated for a minute. Then he made a determined effort totemporize.

  "And what's more," he said, "my wife's hat's comin' back into stylebefore long, anyhow. It's just as I keep on tellin' her. The styleskinder go in circles, an' if she waits long enough they'll get back tothe kind she's wearin', and then she'll be the first woman in Tinkletownto have the very up-to-datest style in hats,--'way ahead of anybodyelse,--and it will be as good as new, too, you bet, after the way she'sbeen savin' it."

  "Now I know why you got your pockets stuffed full of things,--eggs,maybe, or hick'ry nuts, or--whatever it is you got in 'em. It's becauseyou're tryin' to save a piece of wrappin' paper or a bag, or the wearand tear on a basket. No wonder you got so much money you don't know howto spend it."

  "And as for me gettin' a new suit of clothes," pursued the deacon,doggedly, "if times don't get better the chances are I'll have to beburied in the suit I got on this minute. I never knowed times to be sohard--"

  The marshal interrupted him. "You go in an' pay up what you owe fer the_Banner_ an' I'll wait here till you come out."

  Deacon Rank appeared to reflect. "Come to think of it, I guess I'll stopin on my way back from the post office. Ten or fifteen minutes--"

  He stopped short, a fixed intent look in his sharp little eyes. His gazewas directed past Anderson's head at some object down the street. Then,quite abruptly and without even the ceremony of a hasty "good-bye," hebolted into the _Banner_ office, slamming the door in the marshal'sface.

  "Well, I'll be dog-goned!" burst from the lips of the astonished Mr.Crow. "I never knowed him to change his mind so quick as that in all mylife,--or so often. What the dickens--"

  Indignation succeeded wonder at this instant, cutting off his audiblereflections. Snapping his jaws together, he laid a resolute hand on thedoorknob. Just as he turned it and was on the point of stamping in afterthe deacon, his eye fell upon an approaching figure--the figure of awoman. If it had not been for the hat she was wearing, he would havefailed to recognize her at once. But there was no mistaking the hat.

  "Hi!" called out the wearer of the too familiar object. Marshal Crow letgo of the door knob and stared at the lady in sheer stupefaction.

  Mrs. Rank's well-preserved hat was perched rakishly at a perilous angleover one ear. A subsequent shifting to an even more precarious positionover the other ear, as the result of a swift, inaccurate sweep of thelady's hand, created an instant impression that it was attached to herdrab, disordered hair by means of a new-fangled but absolutelydependable magnet. Never before had Marshal Crow seen that ancient hatso much as the fraction of an inch out of "plumb" with the bridge ofMrs. Rank's undeviating nose.

  She approached airily. Her forlorn little person was erect, evensoldierly. Indeed, if anything, she was a shade too erect at times. Atsuch times she appeared to be in some danger of completely forgettingher equilibrium. She stepped high, as the saying is, and without herusual precision. In a word, the meek and retiring wife of Deacon Rankwas hilariously drunk!

  Pedestrians, far and near, stopped stockstill in their tracks to gazeopen-mouthed at the jaunty drudge; storekeepers peered wide-eyed andincredulous from windows and doors. If you suddenly had
asked any one ofthem when the world was coming to an end, he would have replied withoutthe slightest hesitation.

  She bore down upon the petrified Mr. Crow.

  "Is zat you, An'erson?" she inquired, coming to an uncertain stop at thefoot of the steps. Where--oh, where! was the subdued, timorous voice ofSister Rank? Whose--oh, whose! were the shrill and fearless tones thatissued forth from the lips of the deacon's wife?

  "For the Lord's sake, Lucy,--wha--what ails you?" gasped the horrifiedmarshal.

  "Nothing ails me, An'erson. Nev' fel' better'n all my lipe--life.Where's my hush--hushban'?"

  She brandished her right hand, and clutched in her fingers an implementthat caused Anderson's eyes to almost start from his head.

  "What's that you got in your hand?" he cried out.

  "Thish? Thass a hashet. Don't you know whass a hashet is?"

  "I--I know it's a hatchet. Lucy,--but, fer heaven's sake, what are yougoin' to do with it?"

  "I'm going to cut th' deacon's head off wiz it," she replied blandly.

  "What!"

  "Yes, shir; thass what I'm goin' cut off. Right smack off,An'erson,--and you can't stop me, unnerstan', An'erson. I been wannin'cuttiz 'ead off f'r twenny-fi' year. I--"

  "Hey! Stop wavin' that thing around like that, Lucy Rank!"

  "You needen be 'fraid, An'erson. I woulden hurt you fer whole UnitedStates. Where's my hussam, An'erson?"

  Marshal Crow looked hopelessly at the well-scattered witnesses who weretaking in the scene from a respectful distance. Obviously it was hisduty to do something. Not that he really felt that the deacon's headshould not be cut off by his long-suffering wife, but that it was hardlythe proper thing for her to do it in public. Virtually every man inTinkletown had declared, at one time or another, that Mrs. Rank ought toslit the old skinflint's throat, or poison him, or set fire to him, orsomething of the sort, but, even though he agreed with them, the factstill remained that Marshal Crow considered it his duty to protect thedeacon in this amazing crisis.

  "Gimme that hatchet, Lucy Rank," he commanded, with authority. "Youain't yourself, an' you know it. You gimme that hatchet an' then lemmetake you home an' put you to bed. You'll be all right in the mornin',an--"

  "Didden my hussam go in the Blammer ossif minute ago?" she demanded,fixing a baleful glare upon the closed door.

  "See here, Lucy, you been drinkin'. You're full as a goat. You gimmethat--"

  "An'erson Crow, are you tryin' inshult me?" she demanded, drawingherself up. "Wha' you mean sayin' I'm dunk,--drump? You know I nevertouched dropper anything. I'm the bes' frien' your wife's got innis townan' she--who's 'at lookin' out zat winner? Zat my hussam?"

  Before the marshal could interfere, she blazed away at one of thewindows in the _Banner_ office. There was a crash of glass. She was nowempty-handed but the startled guardian of the peace was slow to realizeit. He was still trying to convince himself that it was the gentle,long-suffering Mrs. Rank who stood before him.

  Suddenly, to his intense dismay, she threw her arms around his neck andbegan to weep--and wail.

  "I--I--love my hussam,--I love my hussam,--an' I didden mean cuttiz 'eadoff--I didden--I didden, An'erson. My hussam's dead. My hussam's head'sall off,--an' I love my hussam--I love my hussam."

  The door flew open and Harry Squires strode forth.

  "What the devil does this mean--My God! Mrs. Rank! Wha--what's thematter with her, Anderson?"

  The marshal gazed past him into the office. His eyes were charged withapprehension.

  "Where--where's the deacon's head?" he gulped.

  The editor did not hear him. He had eyes and ears only for the mumblingcreature who dangled limply from the marshal's neck; her face was hiddenbut her hat was very much in evidence. It was bobbing up and down on theback of her head.

  "Let's get her into the office," he exclaimed. "This is dreadful,Anderson,--shocking!"

  A moment later the door closed behind the trio,--and a key was turned inthe lock. This was the signal for a general advance of all observers.Headed by Mr. Hawkins, the undertaker, they swarmed up the steps andcrowded about the windows. The thoughtful Mr. Squires, however,conducted Mrs. Rank to the composing-room and the crowd was cheated.

  Bill Smith, the printer, looked up from his case and pied half of theleading editorial. He proved to be a printer of the old school. After asoft, envious whistle he remarked:

  "My God, I'd give a month's pay for one like that," and any one who hasever come in contact with an old-time printer will know precisely whathe meant.

  "Oh, my poor b'loved hussam," murmured Mrs. Rank. "My poor b'lovedhussam whass I have endured f'r twenty-fi' years wiz aller Chrissenforcitude of--where is my poor hussam?"

  She swept the floor with a hazy, uncertain look. Not observing anythingthat looked like a head, she turned a bleary, accusing eye upon BillSmith, the printer, and there is no telling what she might have said tohim if Harry Squires had not intervened.

  "Sit down here, Mrs. Rank,--do. Your husband is all right. He was here afew minutes ago, and--which way did he go, Bill?"

  "Out," said Bill laconically, jerking his head in the direction of anopen window at the rear.

  "Didden--didden I cuttiz 'ead off?" demanded Mrs. Rank.

  "Not so's you'd notice it," said Bill.

  "Well, 'en, whose 'ead did I c'off?"

  "Nobody's, my dear lady," said Squires, soothingly. "Everything's allright,--quite all right. Please--"

  "Where's my hashet? Gimme my hashet. I insiss on my hashet. I gottercuttiz 'ead off. Never ress in my grave till I cuttiz 'ead off."

  Presently they succeeded in quieting her. She sat limply in anarm-chair, brought from the front office, and stared pathetically upinto the faces of the three perspiring men.

  "Can you beat it?" spoke Harry Squires to the beaddled marshal.

  "Where do you suppose she got it?" muttered Anderson, helplessly. "Maybeshe had a toothache or something and took a little brandy--"

  "Not a bit of it," said Harry. "She's been hitting old man Rank's stockof hard cider, that's what she's been doing."

  "Impossible! He's our leadin' church-member. He ain't got any hardcider. He's dead-set ag'inst intoxicatin' liquors. I've heard him say ita hundred times."

  "Well, just ask _her_," was Harry's rejoinder.

  Mr. Crow drew a stool up beside the unfortunate lady and sat down.

  "What have you been drinking, Lucy?" he asked gently, patting her hand.

  "You're a liar," said Mrs. Rank, quite distinctly. This was anadditional shock to Anderson. The amazing potency of strong drink washere being exemplified as never before in the history of Time. A soberLucy Rank would no more have called any one a liar than she would havecursed her Maker. Such an expression from the lips of the meek anddown-trodden martyr was unbelievable,--and the way she said it! Not evenPat Murphy, the coal-wagon driver, with all his years of practice, couldhave said it with greater distinctness,--not even Pat who possessed themasculine right to amplify the behest with expletives not supposed to beuttered except in the presence of his own sex.

  "She'll be swearing next," said Bill Smith, after a short silence. "Icouldn't stand _that_," he went on, taking his coat from a peg in thewall.

  Mr. Squires took the lady in hand.

  "If you will just be patient for a little while, Mrs. Rank, Bill will goout and find your husband and bring him here at once. In the meantime, Iwill see that your hatchet is sharpened up, and put in first-class orderfor the sacrifice. Go on, Bill. Fetch the lady's husband." He winked atthe departing Bill. "We've got to humour her," he said in an aside toAnderson. "These hard-cider jags are the worst in the world. The sayingis that a quart of hard cider would start a free-for-all fight inheaven. Excuse me, Mrs. Rank, while I fix your nice new hat for you. Itisn't on quite straight--and it's such a pretty hat, isn't it?"

  Mrs. Rank squinted at him for a moment in doubtful surprise, and thensmiled.

  "My hussam tol' you to shay that," said she, shaking her finger at hi
m.

  "Not at all,--not at all! I've always said it, haven't I, Anderson? Say_yes_, you old goat!" (He whispered the last, and the marshal respondednobly.) "Now, while we are waiting for Mr. Rank, perhaps you will tellus just why you want to cut his head off today. What has the old villainbeen up to lately?"

  She composed herself for the recital. The two men looked down at herwith pity in their eyes.

  "He d'sherted me today,--abon--abonimably d'sherted me. For'n MissionaryS'ciety met safternoon at our house. All ladies in S'ciety met ourhouse. Deac'n tol' me be generous--givvem all the r'fressmens theywanted. He went down shellar an' got some zat shider he p'up lash Marsh.He said he wanted to shee whezzer it was any good." She paused, her browwrinkled in thought. "Lesh see--where was I?"

  "In the parlour?" supplied Anderson, helpfully.

  She shook her head impatiently. "I mean where was I talkin' 'bout? Oh,yesh,--'bout shider. When Woman For'n Missinary S'ciety come I givvemshider,--lots shider. No harm in shider, An'erson,--so don' look likethat. Deacon shays baby could drink barrel shider an--and sho on an' shoforth. Well, For'n Missinary S'ciety all havin' splennid time,--singin''n' prayin' 'n' sho on 'n' sho forth, an'--an' sho on 'n' sho forth.Then your wife, An'erson, she jumps up 'n' shays we gotter haveshong-shervice,--reg'ler shong shervice. She--"

  "_My_ wife?" exclaimed Anderson. "Was Eva Crow there?"

  "Shert'nly. Never sho happy 'n' her life. Couldn't b'lieve my eyes 'n'ears. And Sister Jones too,--your bosh's wife, Misser Squires. Say,d'you ever know she could shing bass? Well, she can, all right. She c'nshing bass an' tenor'n ev'thing else, she can. She--"

  "Where--where are they now?" demanded Anderson, with a wild look atHarry.

  "Who? The Woman For'n Missionary S'ciety?"

  "Yes. For heaven's sake, don't tell me they're loose on the street!"

  "Not mush! Promished me they wait till I capshered my hussam, deader'live, an' bring 'im 'ome. Didden I tell you my hussam desherted me? Hedesherted all of us--all of For'n Missinary S'ciety. I gotter bring 'imback, deader 'live. Wannim to lead in shong shervice. My hussam's gotloudes' voice in town. Leads shingin' in chursh 'n' prayer meetin' 'n'ever 'where else. Loudes' voice in town, thass what he is. Prays loudes'of anybody, too. All ladies waitin' up my house f'r loudes voice in townto lead 'em in shacred shong. Muss have somebody with loud voice to lead'em. Lass I heard of 'em they was all shingin' differen' shongs.Loudes' voice--lou'st voich--lou--"

  She slumbered.

  The marshal and the editor looked at each other.

  "Well, she's safe for the time being," said the latter, wiping his wetforehead.

  "An' so's the deacon," added Anderson. "See here, Harry, I got to hustleup to the deacon's house an' see what c'n be done with them women. Mylordy! The town will be disgraced if they get out on the streetan'--why, like as not, they'll start a parade or somethin'. You stayhere an' watch her, an' I'll--"

  "No, you don't, my friend," broke in Harry gruffly. "You get her out ofthis office as quickly as you can."

  "Are you afraid to be left alone with that pore, helpless little woman?"demanded Anderson. "I'll take her hatchet away with me, if that's whatyou're afraid of."

  "If you'd been attending to your job as a good, competent official ofthis benighted town, the poor, helpless little woman wouldn't be in thecondition she's in now. You--"

  "Hold on there! What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean this, Mr. Shellback Holmes. A dozen people in this town havebeen buying up apples and grinding them and making cider of them as fastas they could cask it ever since last January. Making it right underyour nose, and this is the first you've seen of it. There's enough hardcider in Tinkletown at this minute to pickle an army. See those bottlesover there under Bill's stool? Well, old Deacon Rank left 'em therebecause he was afraid he'd bust 'em when he made his exit through thatwindow. He told Bill Smith he could keep them, if he would assume hisindebtedness to this office,--two dollars and a quarter,--and he alsotold Bill that he could guarantee that it was good stuff! We've gotvisible proof of it here, and we also know how the damned old rascalwent about testing the quality of his wares. He has tried it out on themost 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 morethan a quart on the whole bunch of 'em. Sure fire stuff! And there arebarrels of it in this town, Mr. Shellback Holmes, waiting to beconverted into song. Now, the first thing you've got to do is to takethis 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 thesunny side of the moon, and what's more, my friend, if they _do_ take itinto their poor, beaddled heads to go out and paint the town, therewon't be any stopping 'em. Hold on! Didn't you hear what I said aboutthe 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 thestreets," 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 hishearse."

  Mr. Squires put his hand over his mouth and looked away. When he turnedback to the unhappy official, his voice was gentler.

  "You leave her to me, old fellow. I'll take care of her. She can stayhere 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 herhome!" 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 takeher home, I'll let on as if I'm full and then she'll insist on takin' mehome."

  With that he was gone.

  The crowd in front of the _Banner_ office now numbered at least ahundred. Mr. Crow stopped at the top of the steps and swiftly ran hiseye over the excited throng. He was thinking hard and quiterapidly--for him. All the while the crowd was shouting questions at him,he was deliberately counting noses. Suddenly he held up his hand. Therewas instant, expectant silence.

  "All husbands who possess wives in the Woman's Foreign MissionarySociety kindly step forward. Make way there, you people,--let 'emthrough. This way, Newt,--an' you, Alf,--come on, Elmer K.,--I said'wives,' Mrs. Fry, not husbands. All husbands please congregate in thealley back of the _Banner_ office an' wait fer instructions. Don't askquestions. Just do as I tell you. Hey, you kids! Run over an' tell MortFryback 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 comeat once. Now, you women keep back! This is fer men only."

  In due time a troubled, anxious group of men sallied forth from thealley back of the _Banner_ office, and, headed by Anderson Crow, marchedresolutely down Sickle Street to Maple and advanced upon the house ofDeacon Rank.

  The song service was in full blast. The men stopped at the bottom of theyard and listened with sinking hearts.

  "That's my wife," said Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer, a bleak look inhis 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 thisway." 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'ssingin'?"

  "Certainly not. I said it goes _this_ way. That's somebody else youhear, Mort."

  "Hear that?" cried Ed Higgins excitedly. "That's 'Sweet Alice, BenBolt!' 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 mywife's singin'!"

 
; "Well, we got to do somethin'," groaned Newt Spratt, whose wife wasorganist in the Pond Road Church. "She'll bust that piano all to smashif she keeps on like that."

  "Come on, gentlemen," said Anderson, compressing his lips. "Remembernow, every man selects his own wife. Every--"

  "Wait a minute, Anderson," pleaded George Brubacker. "It'll take morethan 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," wasthe marshal's stern rejoinder. "Now, remember the plan. We're justdroppin' in to surprise 'em, to sort of join in the service. Don't ferthe land's sake, let 'em see we're uneasy about 'em. We got to usediplomacy. Look pleasant, ever'body,--look happy. Now, then,--forwardmarch! Laugh, dern you, Alf!"

  Once more they advanced, chatting volubly, and with faces supposed to bewholly free from anxiety. The merest glance, however, would havepenetrated 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 thecellars in town tomorrow, so you might as well be prepared to empty allyour cider into Smock's Crick. You don't need to say you ain't got anyon hand. I've been investigatin' for several weeks, an' I want to tellyou right here an' now that I've got every cask an' every bottle of hardcider in Tinkletown spotted. I know what's become of every derned applethat 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 "anall-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 ofTinkletown crowded into view. An invisible choir was singing theDoxology.

  "Hello, boys!" called out Mrs. Jones, cheerily. "Come right in! Where'szat nice old deacon?"

  "Been waiting for him for nawful long time," said Mrs. Pratt. "Couldn'twait 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 allgoing down town to hol' open-air temp-rance meet-meeting."

  * * * * *

  Late that evening, Marshal Crow mounted the steps leading to Dr. Brown'soffice and rang the bell. He rang it five or six times without gettingany 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 forhim to come to their houses as soon as he returned. The Marshal put onhis glasses and took up the pencil to write. One side of the slate wasalready filled with hurried scribbling. He squinted and with difficultymade out that Dr. Brown was wanted immediately at the homes of SituateM. Jones, Abbie Nixon, Newton Spratt, Mort Fryback, Professor Rank, Rev.Maltby and Joseph P. Singer. He sighed and shook his head sadly. Then hemoistened a finger and erased the second name on the list, that of Mrs.Abbie Nixon.

  "Husbands first," he muttered in justification of his action insubstituting the following line:

  "Come at once. A. Crow, Marshal of Tinkletown."

  Compunction prevailed, however. He wrote the word "over" at the bottomand, turning the slate over, cleared his conscience by jotting down Mrs.Nixon's "call" at the top of the reverse side. Replacing it on thetable, he went away. Virtue was its own reward in this instance atleast, for the worthy marshal neglected to put the slate down as he hadfound it. Mrs. Nixon's "call" alone was visible.

  He set out to find Harry Squires. That urbane gentleman was smoking hisreportorial corn-cob in the rear of Lamson's store. Except for Lamson'sclerk, who had seized the rare opportunity to delve uninterruptedly intothe mysteries of the latest "Nick Carter," the store was empty. Theusual 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 soago, knocking in the heads of three or four barrels. Do you know whatI've been thinking, Anderson? If somebody would only empty a barrel orso of olive oil into Smock's Crick before morning, we'd have thefoundation for the largest supply of French dressing ever created in thehistory of the world."

  Mr. Crow looked scandalized. "Good gosh, Harry, ain't we had enoughscandal in this here town today without addin' anything French to it?"

  * * * * *

  The only moral to be attached to this story lies in the brief statementthat Mrs. Crow's indisposition, slight in duration though it was, sooccupied Mr. Crow's attention that by the time he was ready to begin hissearch the second night after the song service, there wasn't so much asa pint of hard cider to be found in Tinkletown. This condition was duein a large measure, no doubt, to the fact that Smock's Creek is anunusually swift little stream. It might even be called turbulent.

  "JAKE MILLER HANGS HIMSELF"

  "Have you heard the latest news?" inquired Newt Spratt, speaking in ahushed voice. He addressed Uncle Dad Simms, the town's oldestinhabitant, whom he met face to face at the corner of Main and Sicklestreets one fine morning in May. Now any one in Tinkletown would tellyou that it was the sheerest folly to address Uncle Dad in a hushedvoice. Mr. Spratt knew this as well as he knew his own name, so itshould be easy to understand that the "news" was of a somewhatawe-inspiring nature. Ordinarily Newt was a loud-mouthed, jovial soul;you could hear him farther and usually longer than any other malecitizen 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 tobring Mr. Spratt to his senses. He started violently, stared hard for amoment at the octogenarian, and then strode off down Main street,shaking his head as much as to say, "There must be something the matterwith 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 thatNewt 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 ofmind, to look upon the day as a nice one, nevertheless it was. The sunwas shining brightly, (but without Newt's knowledge), and the air wassoft and balmy and laden with the perfume of spring. Birds weretwittering in the new green foliage of the trees, but Newt heard themnot; dogs frisked in the sunshine, wagging their tongues and tails, butNewt saw them not; hens cackled, horses whinnied, children laughed, andall 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 townhad heard the "news" long before it reached him. For half-an-hour ormore 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 frontdoor bell at the home of William Grimes, night watchman at Smock'sWarehouse, 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 itclear 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 dutyto go back and look up Uncle Dad Simms, even though it meant yelling hishead off when he found him; it was a moral certainty that the onlyperson in Tinkletown who _had_n't heard it was Uncle Dad,--and he wouldtake a lot of telling.

  The _Weekly Banner_ would not be out till the following day; for atleast twenty hours Uncle Dad would remain in the densest ignorance ofthe sensation that had turned Tinkletown completely upside down.Somebody ought to tell him. Somebody ought to tell poor old Uncle DadSimms, 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 assistantwas banging away with might and main at his anvil, and Uncle Dad wore apleased, satisfied smile on his thin old lips. He always said he lovedto stand there and listen to the faint, faraway music of the hammer onthe anvil, so different from the hammers and anvils they used to havewhen he was a boy,--when they were so blamed noisy you couldn't hearyourself 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 totell Uncle Dad anything was over in the Town Hall, provided it wasunoccupied, and thither he conducted the expectant old man. As theymounted the steps leading to the Hall, Uncle Dad's pleased expressiondeveloped into something distinctly audible--something resembling acackle of joy. Mr. Spratt favoured him with a sharp, apprehensiveglance.

  "Are they goin' to hold the inquest as soon as all this?" shouted UncleDad, 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, andstarted swiftly homeward. There was the possible, but remote chance thathis wife hadn't heard the news,--and if she had heard it, she'd hearfrom 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 Tinkletownto hear the news, and here he was on this stupendous occasion, the lastof them all. And why? Because he had taken that one morning to perform apeculiarly arduous and intensive bit of hard work up in the attic of hiswife's house. He had chosen the attic because Mrs. Spratt rathervehemently 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 offtrying to teach his new fox terrier pup how to stand on its hind legsand jump over a broom stick, this startling piece of news was sweepingfrom one end of Tinkletown to the other.

  Never, said Newt firmly, as he hurried homeward by the backstreets,--never would he do another day's work in his life, if this wasto be the result of honest toil. And what's more, he hadn't evenreceived a single word of praise from his wife when he descended fromthe attic and triumphantly told her what he had accomplished,--he andthe pup between them--after three hours of solid, painstaking endeavour.

  Mrs. Spratt had merely said: "If you could learn that pup how to splitfirewood or milk a cow or repair the picket fence or something likethat, 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, heespied the Marshal of Tinkletown, Anderson Crow, leisurely approachingfrom 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 tohis lips and began puffing away at it,--but not until he had sent afurtive glance over his shoulder.

  "What you doin' back here?" inquired Newt, somewhat offensively, as thetwo drew closer together. "Lookin' fer clues?"

  Anderson again removed the corn-cob pipe, spat accurately over the handwith 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 thinkyou're mighty sensible not to smoke it any place except in an alley. Whydon't you get a new one? They only cost ten cents. If you got a new oneonce in a while,--say once a year,--your wife wouldn't order you out ofthe house every time you light it."

  "She don't order me out of the house when I light it," retortedAnderson. "'Cause why? 'Cause I never light it till I get two or threeblocks away from home."

  The subject apparently being exhausted, the two alley-farers lapsed intocharacteristic silence. Mr. Spratt leaned rather wearily against his ownback fence, while Mr. Crow accepted the support of a telephone pole.Presently the former started to say something about the weather, but gotno farther than the first two or three words when an astoundingconjecture caused him to break off abruptly. He glanced at the oldmarshal, swallowed hard a couple of times, and then hopefully venturedthe time-honoured question:

  "Anything new, Anderson?"

  The marshal responded with a slow, almost imperceptible shake of thehead. He was gazing reflectively at a couple of English sparrows perchedon one of the telephone wires some distance down the line.

  Newt experienced a sudden, overwhelming joy. Caution, however, and acertain fear that he might be mistaken, advised him to go slow. Thereremained 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'sear.

  "The what?"

  His companion exhaled a tremendous breath of satisfaction. Life wassuddenly worth living. The Marshal of Tinkletown had not heard the"news." The marshal, _himself_!

  "Well, by Gosh!" exclaimed the revivified Mr. Spratt. "Where have youbeen at?"

  "That's my business," snapped Anderson.

  "All I got to say is that you ought to be attendin' to it, if it's yourbusiness," said Newt loftily. "You're the marshal of this here town,ain't you? And everybody in town knows that Jake Miller is dead exceptyou. You're a fine marshal." There was withering scorn in Newt's voice.He even manifested an inclination to walk off and leave the marshalwithout further enlightenment.

  Anderson made a valiant effort to conceal his astonishment. Assuming amore or less indifferent air, he calmly remarked:

  "I knowed Jake was a little under the weather, but I didn't think it wasserious? 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 arafter in Ed Higgins's livery stable. With a clothesline. Kicked astep-ladder out from under himself. Why, even Uncle Dad Simms has heardabout 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'tescape. He's down in Hawkins's undertaking place. Hey! You dropped yourpipe. Don't you want it any--"

  "If you're goin' my way, you'll have to _run_," called out Marshal Crowas he unlimbered his long legs and made for the mouth of the alley. Hewas not running, but Newt, being an undersized individual, had no othermeans of keeping up with him unless he obeyed the sardonic behest. Forten or fifteen rods, Mr. Spratt jogged faithfully at the heels of theleader, and then suddenly remembered that it was a long way to Hawkins'sUndertaking Emporium in Sickle street,--at least an eighth of a mile asthe crow flies,--and as he already had had a hard day's work, he sloweddown to a walk and then to a standstill. He concluded to wait till someone came along in a wagon or an automobile. There wasn't any use wastinghis valuable breath in running. Much better to save it for future use.In the meantime, by standing perfectly still, he could ruminate to hisheart's content.

  Marshal Crow's long strides soon carried him to the corner of MapleStreet, where he made a sharp turn to the right, shooting a swift lookover his shoulder as he did so. His late companion was leaning against atree. Satisfied that he had completely thrown Mr. Spratt off the trail,Anderson took a short cut through Justice of the Peace Robb's front andback yards and eventually emerged into Main Street, where he slackenedhis pace to a dignified saunter.

  He caught sight of Alf Reesling, the reformed town drunkard, holdingconversation from the sidewalk with some one in a second story window ofMrs. Judy O'Ryan's boarding house, half a block away.

  "Hello!" shouted Alf, discovering the marshal. "Here he comes now. Whereyou been all morning, Andy? I been huntin' everywhere for you. Somethinghorrible has happened. I just stopped to tell Jud
y about it."

  The marshal stopped, and gazed upon Alf with mild interest. He noddedcarelessly to Mrs. O'Ryan in the upstairs window, and addressed thefollowing significant remark to Alf:

  "I guess I've got Jake's motive purty well established, Alf. You needn'task 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'dgone 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 thatyou seem to have got into yours. Next time you see Newt you tell him Ibeen laughin' myself almost sick over the way I fooled him,--the blamediggoramus." Having planted a seed that was intended to bear the fruit ofjustification, the venerable marshal decided that now was the time toprepare himself against anything further in the shape of surprise. So helinked arms with Alf and started off down the street.

  "Now, see here, Alf," he began, somewhat sternly. "I won't stand for anybeatin' 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 withwhat I've already worked out,--I'll see that you get fair treatmentand--"

  Alf stopped short. "What in sassafras are you talkin' about? Whatstory?"

  "Begin at the beginnin' and tell me where you was last night, and _earlythis morning_, and where and when you last saw Jake Miller."

  The marshal's manner was decidedly accusative, although tempered bysadness. Something in his voice betrayed a great and illy concealedregret that this life-long friend had got himself so seriously entangledin 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 ofyou. 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 anysatisfaction I c'n say that the last time I saw him alive was yesterdayafternoon about four o'clock. He was unloadin' some baled hay over atEd'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 thanusual?"

  "Couldn't say."

  "Did he look pale or upset-like?"

  "I kinder thought,--afterwards,--that he did look a _leetle_ pale. Sortof as if he'd eat something that didn't agree with him."

  "I see. Well, go on."

  "Go on what?"

  "Tellin' me. Where did you next see him?"

  "Oh, there was a lot of people saw him after I did. Why don't you askthem?"

  "Answer my question."

  "I didn't see him again until about half past seven this morning. He washangin' from a rafter in Ed's stable. My God, it was awful! I know I'lldream about Jake for the next hundred years."

  "Did he have a rope around his neck?"

  "No, he didn't." Anderson started. This was an unexpected reply.

  "Well,--er, what _did_ he have around his neck?"

  "A halter strap."

  "You--you're sure about that?"

  "Positive."

  "I see. So far your story jibes with the facts. Now, answer me thisquestion. When and where did you help Jake Miller write that note offarewell?"

  "What?" gasped Alf.

  "You heard me."

  "I didn't help him write any note."

  "You didn't?"

  "Nobody helped him write it."

  "How do you know that, sir?"

  "Do you mean to tell me that Jake left a farewell note?"

  "I'm not sayin' whether he did or not. You don't mean to claim that hedidn't leave one, do you?"

  "If he did, nobody that I know of has laid eyes on it."

  Anderson smiled mysteriously. "Well, we'll drop that feature of the casetemporarily. You was quite a friend of Jake Miller's, wasn't you?"

  "Off and on," said Alf. "Same as you was," he added, quickly.

  "What reason did he ever give you for wantin' to take his own life?Think carefully, now,--and nothing but the truth, mind you?"

  "The only thing I ever heard him say that sounded suspicious was when hetold a crowd of us at Lamson's one night that if this here prohibitionwent into effect he'd like to have some one telegraph his sister inBuffalo, so's she could come on and claim his remains."

  "But he wasn't a drinkin' man, Alf, and you know it."

  "I know, but he always said he was lookin' forward to the day when hecould afford to get as drunk as he sometimes thought he'd like to be. Hewas a droll sort of a cuss, Jake was. He claimed he'd been savin' up hisappetite and his money for nearly three years so's he could see whichwould last the longest in a finish fight."

  "Was you present when he was cut down?"

  "I was."

  "Aha! That's what I'm tryin' to get at. Who cut the rope?"

  "It wasn't a rope,--it was a hitchin' strap. An' nobody cut it, come tothink of it. It was a perfectly good strap, so two or three of us heldJake's body up so's Ed Higgins could untie it from the rafter."

  "And then what?"

  "Old man Hawkins and Doc Brown said he'd been dead five or six hours."

  "I see. What did Doc say he died of?"

  Alf stared at him in amazement. "He died of being hung to a rafter."

  Marshal Crow cleared his throat, and was ominously silent for fifteen ortwenty paces. When he next spoke it was with the deepest gravity. Therewas a dark significance in the look he fixed upon Alf.

  "Is there any proof that Jake Miller wasn't dead long before he wasstrung up to that rafter?"

  "What's that?" gasped Alf, once more coming to a sudden stop.

  "It's a matter I can't discuss with anybody at present," said Anderson,curtly.

  "Have--have you deduced something important, Anderson?" implored Alf,eagerly. "Is there evidence of foul play?"

  "That's my business," said Anderson. "Come on. Don't stand there withyour mouth open like that. He's still over at Hawkins's place, is he? Ibeen workin' on the quiet all by myself since early this morning, an' Idon't know just what's been happening around here for the last couple ofhours."

  "He was there the last I heard of him," said Alf.

  "Well, you've given a purty good account of yourself, Alf, an' unlesssomething turns up to change my present opinion, you are free to comean' go as you please."

  "See here, you blamed old hayseed, what do you mean by actin' as if Ihad anything to do with Jake Mil--"

  "You don't know what you're doing when you're drunk, Alf Reesling."

  "But I ain't been drunk for twenty-five years, you blamed old--"

  "That remains to be seen," interrupted Anderson sternly. "Now don't talkany more. I want to think."

  Having obtained certain desirable facts in connection with thetaking-off of Jacob Miller, Marshal Crow ventured boldly, confidently,into the business section of the town. He was now in a position todiscuss the occurrence with equanimity,--in fact, with indifference.Moreover, he could account for his physical absence from the centre ofthe stage, so to speak, by reminding all would-be critics that he wasmentally on the job long before Ed Higgins made the gruesome discovery.
In other words, it served his purpose to "lie low" and observe fromwell-calculated obscurity the progress of events.

  Now, Tinkletown had not experienced the shock and thrill of suicide in agreat many years. Sundry citizens had met death in an accidental way,and others had suddenly died of old age, but no one had intentionallyshuffled off since Jasper Wiggins succeeded in completing a hithertounsuccessful life by pulling the trigger of a single-barrelled shotgunwith his big toe, back in the fall of '83.

  The horrendous act of Jacob Miller, therefore, created a sensation.

  Tinkletown was agog with excitement and awe. Everybody was talking aboutJake. He was, by all odds, the most important man in town. Alive, hehad been perhaps the least important.

  He was the sort of citizen you always think of last when trying to takea mental census of the people you know by sight.

  Once, and only once, had Jake seen his name in the columns of the_Weekly Banner_, and he was so impressed that he cut the article out ofthe paper and pasted it under the sweat-band of his best hat. Ithappened to be the obituary notice of a farmer bearing the same name,but that made no difference to Jake; he was vicariously honoured byhaving his name in print,--and in rather large type at that.

  And now he was to have at least half a page in the _Banner_, with hisname in huge black letters, double column, something like this:

  JAKE MILLER HANGS HIMSELF!!!

  Column after column of Jake Miller and he not there to rejoice!

  Jake Miller on the front page, crowding out the news from Paris andWashington, displacing local Society "items," shoving the ordinary"obituaries" out of their hallowed corners, confiscating space thatbelonged to the Lady Maccabees and other lodges, supplantingthoughtfully prepared matter in the editorial column,--why, the nextissue of the _Banner_ would be a Jake Miller number from beginning toend. And Jake not there to enjoy it all!

  Jake had been a more or less stationary inhabitant of Tinkletown forabout three years. He had taken up his residence there without reallyhaving had the slightest intention or desire to do so. In fact, he wouldhave been safely out of the village in another ten minutes if Mrs. AbbieNixon hadn't missed the blackberry pie from the kitchen window sill,where she had set it out to cool,--and even then he might have got awayif he had had a handkerchief or something with which to remove thedamning stains from his lips and chin. But, in his haste, he used theback of his hand, and--well, Justice of the Peace Robb sent him to thecalaboose for thirty days,--and that's how Jake became a resident ofTinkletown.

  At the trial he was so shamelessly complimentary about Mrs. Nixon's piethat the prosecuting witness came very near to perjuring herself inorder to show her appreciation. The dignity of the law was preservedonly by Jake's unshaken resolution to plead guilty to the charge offeloniously eating one blackberry pie with never-to-be-forgotten relish.Mrs. Nixon was so impressed by Jake's honesty that she made a practiceof sending a pie to him every baking-day during the period of hisincarceration. But when approached by two or three citizens with theproposal that she join with them in providing the fellow with work as asort of community "handy-man," she refused to consider the matter at allbecause most of her silver had come down from her grandmother and shewouldn't part with it for anything in the world.

  _At the trial he was shamelessly complimentary about Mrs.Nixon's pie_]

  For one who had never laid eyes on the village of Tinkletown up to theday of his arrival, Jake Miller revealed the most astonishing sense ofcivic pride. The first thing he did after being safely locked up was towhitewash the interior of his residence. (The town board furnished arather thin mixture of slaked lime and water, borrowed a whitewash brushfrom Ebenezer January, and got off with a total cost of abouteighty-five cents.) He also repaired several windows in the calaboose bystuffing newspapers into the broken panes, remodeled the entire heatingsystem with a little stove polish, put two or three locks in order, andonce, on finding that it was possible to remove a grating from one ofthe windows, crawled out of his place of confinement and mowed the grassplot in front of the jail.

  It was then that the people of Tinkletown began to take notice of him. Afew of the more enterprising citizens went so far as to consult JusticeRobb about extending Jake's sentence indefinitely, claiming that itwasn't at all likely the town would ever see another prisoner who tookas much interest in keeping the jail in order as he.

  And when he was finally released, he obtained a job with Ed Higgins at aslight increase in wages over what he had been receiving while indurance vile.

  He was a middle-aged man with a large Adam's apple and a retreatingchin; his legs were so warped that a good ten inches of space separatedthe knees. Whence he came and why he was content to abide in Tinkletownwere questions he always answered, but never in a satisfactory manner.Even the hardiest citizens soon came to the conclusion that there wasn'tmuch use in asking questions that Jake could answer with a slow andbaffling wink. He became a fixture in Tinkletown, doing odd jobs fornearly everybody in town, and still finding ample time to attend to hisduties at the feed yard. Whenever any one had a job to be done that heparticularly disliked doing himself, he always appealed to Jake, andJake did it.

  When not otherwise employed, he slept in the box-stall once inhabited bythe prize stallion, Caleb the Second, now deceased, and you would havebeen surprised to see what a tidy place he made of it by tacking up twoor three anatomical pictures from the _Police Gazette_, and putting in afolding bed,--or, more strictly speaking, a bed that could be folded. Itconsisted of three discarded horse blankets. Quite a snug littlebed-chamber, you would say, and, as Jake himself frequently remarked, avery handy stall to have a nightmare in.

  Twice a day, regularly, day in and day out, Jake inquired at the postoffice for mail, and invariably Postmaster Lamson, without looking,replied: "Nothing today, Jake."

  A singular thing happened the afternoon before Jake hung himself. Hereceived a letter,--a rather fat one,--postmarked Sandusky, Ohio. Mr.Lamson and the loafers at the store were still talking about theextraordinary event when the former closed up for the night, a littlelater than usual. And while they were talking about it, Jake was gettingready to hang himself.

  Marshal Crow headed straight for the _Banner_ office, Mr. Reeslingtrailing a few steps behind like a dog at heel. Quite a crowd hadgathered in front of Hawkins's Undertaking Emporium across the streetfrom the newspaper office.

  "Don't foller me in here," ordered the marshal, as Alf started to enterthe _Banner_ office with him. "This is private. Move on, now."

  "But what'll I tell the gang over there if they ask me what you're doin'about the case?" argued Alf.

  "You tell 'em I'll soon have the mystery solved."

  "What mystery? There ain't any mystery about it. He done it as publiclyas he could."

  "Well, you just tell 'em I've got a clue, and I'm follerin' it up."

  With that, he disappeared through the door, closing it with someviolence in Alf's face.

  Harry Squires was putting the finishing touches to a long and graphicaccount of the suicide. He looked up as Anderson sauntered into the backoffice.

  "I'm glad you came in, Marshal," he said. "I hated to finish this storywithout mentioning you, one way or another. Now I can add right here atthe end: 'Our worthy Town Marshal, A. Crow, was also present.'"

  Anderson sat down. He pulled at his sparse chin whiskers for a moment ortwo, evidently trying to release something verbal. Failing in this, hesank back in the chair and fixed Mr. Squires with a pathetic look.

  "Where have you been?" demanded Harry.

  "Oh,--rooting around," said Anderson.

  "Well, I'll tell you something that no one else in this town knows,"said the other, pitying his old friend. "Are you listening?"

  Anderson shook his head drearily. "I'll never be able to live this down,Harry."

  "Brace up. All is not lost. Will you do exactly what I tell you to do?"

  "I hope you ain't going to tell me to go down and jump in themill-race."

>   "Nothing of the sort. That wouldn't help matters. You could swim out.Now, listen. I know why Jake hung himself; and I am the only one whodoes know. The whole story is told here in this article I have justwritten. We've been friends and foes for a great many years, Mr.Hawkshaw, and I want to show my appreciation. I don't know how manytimes you have saved my life. I sha'n't tell you in just what way youhave saved it; I can only say that I should have died long ago of sheerennui,--if you know what that is,--if it hadn't been for you, oldfriend. You have been a life-saver, over and over again. And in spite ofthe many times you have saved my life, I don't seem to have put on anyflesh. I remain as skinny as I was when I first met you. I ought to beso fat that I'd have to waddle. But, that's neither here nor there. I'mgoing to save _your_ life now, Sherlock. I'm going to fix it so thatwhen you _do_ die, the people of this burg will erect a monument to youthat will make the one in Trafalgar Square,--if you know where thatis,--look like a hitching post. Lend me your ear, Mr. Pinkerton. That'sright. Take off your hat. You can hear better.

  "I am going to reveal to you the true facts in the case of our latelamented friend, Jake Miller. I have in my possession the letter hereceived yesterday afternoon. It is under lock and key, and no one elsehas seen it. While everybody else was gazing at Jake and wondering howlong he'd been hanging there, I--with my nose for news,--went off insearch of that letter. I might have spared myself the trouble, for thelast thing Jake did before ending his life, was to put it in an envelopeand mail it to me. He also enclosed a short note in which he implored meto do the right thing by him and put his name in the biggest type wehave on hand. That's just what I intend to do. Now, I'm going to turnthat letter over to you. Instead of me being the one to tell _you_about it, you are going to be allowed to tell _me_ about it. See? That'swhat you are here for now,--to show me this letter with all itsharrowing details. Later on, when the coroner comes over from BoggsCity, you can deliver it to him. Now listen!"

  _"I am going to reveal to you the true facts in the caseof our late lamented friend, Jake Miller"_]

  Ten minutes later, Marshal Crow strode solemnly out of the _Banner_office, and debouched upon the crowd in front of Hawkins's. Severalerstwhile admirers snickered. He paid not the slightest attention tothem. Instead he inquired in a loud, authoritative voice if any one hadseen Alf Reesling.

  "I'm standin' right in front of you," said Alf.

  "I deputize you to act as guard during the day over the remains ofOrlando Camp. You are to see to it that no one trespasses within fiftyfeet of it without an order from me,--or the Governor of New York. Youwill--"

  "What the devil are you talkin' about?" demanded Alf. "There ain't noremains around here named Camp."

  The marshal smiled, but there was more pity than mirth in the effort.

  "All you got to do is to do what I deputize you to do," he said quietly."Is Bill Kepsal here?"

  "Present," said the iron-armed blacksmith, with a series of winks thatalmost sufficed to take in the whole assemblage.

  "I deputize you, William Kepsal, and--" (he craned his neckslightly)--"and you, Newton Spratt, out there on the edge of the crowd,to act as guards durin' the night, until relieved by Deputy Reesling atseven A. M. tomorrow mornin'. You will permit no one to approach orremove the body of Moses Briscoe from its present place of confinementuntil further orders. And now, feller citizens, I must request you oneand all to disperse and not to congregate again in this locality, underpenalty of the law. Disperse at once, move on, everybody."

  The crowd didn't move an inch.

  "He's gone plumb crazy," said Rush Applegate to Uncle Dad Simms, and hemade such a special effort that Uncle Dad heard him quite distinctly.

  "He always _wuz_," agreed Uncle Dad. "What's he crazy about this time?"

  "Come on home, Anderson," said Alf Reesling, gently. "Maybe if you tooka dose of--"

  "Lemme talk to him," interrupted Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer. "Ihad an uncle once that _died_ in an asylum, and I used to keep him quietbefore he got hopeless by lettin' on that he really _was_ GeorgeWashington. Now, look here, Anderson,--"

  Marshal Crow held up his hand. There was no sign of resentment in hisvoice or manner as he addressed the grinning crowd.

  "I don't blame you for thinkin' that man in there is Jake Miller. Ithought so myself until a couple o' days ago. That's when I first beginto suspect that he was the very man he now turns out to be. Gentlemen,if the individual that you knew as Jake Miller hadn't took his own lifelast night, I would have had him behind the bars today, sure as all getout. He wasn't no more Jake Miller than I am. Jake Miller was one of hisalibis. He had--"

  "You mean aliases," interrupted Professor Rank, of the high school.

  "Or nom de plumes," added Willie Spence, the chief clerk at the GrandView Hotel, one of the most inveterate readers in town. To Willie thename of any author was a nom de plume; it didn't make any differencewhether it was his real name or not.

  "He had a lot of names besides Jake Miller," explained Anderson loftily."And he didn't have to go to high school to get 'em," he added as anafterthought, favouring Professor Rank with a withering look. "Now,disperse,--all of you. Go on now, Willie,--disperse. Everybody disperseexcept Alf Reesling. You stay here an' keep watch till I come back."

  With that, he took the easiest and most expeditious way of dispersingthe crowd by walking briskly off in the direction of Main Street. Thecrowd followed,--or more strictly speaking, accompanied him. He was thecentre of a drove of eager inquirers. Having successfully dispersed thecrowd in front of Hawkins's Emporium, he stopped in front of the postoffice and addressed it once more.

  "All you got to do," he announced, taking a seat on the porch, "is towait till the _Banner_ comes out, and then you'll get all the news. Ijust been in there to tell Harry Squires about my discoveries, and he isworkin' his head off now gettin' it all in shape for the subscribers tothe paper. And that reminds me. He asked me to do him a favour. He saysthere are quite a number of cheap skates in this town that ain't regularsubscribers to the _Banner_. That's why Ebenezer January's barber shopis so crowded on Thursday mornings that Ebenezer is threatenin' to stop_his_ subscription. Ebenezer says there's so many customers in his placewaitin' to be next with the paper that he ain't hardly got room to honeup his razors after Wednesday's work. I promised Harry I'd suggest thatyou all go around and subscribe today, because he says he's engagedEbenezer to whitewash the press-room tomorrow and the barber shop won'tbe open at all. He says it's an outrage that--"

  He stopped short to glare in speechless amazement at a familiar figurealmost under his nose.

  "I thought I told you to stand guard back there, Alf Reesling," heroared.

  "Aw, thunder, he can't run away," protested Alf. "An' nobody's goin' to_steal_ him, so what's the sense--"

  "I'll give you just fifteen minutes to get back there to Hawkins's,"declared the marshal firmly. "If you're not back there by that time,I'll arrest you for contempt."

  "That suits me," said Alf promptly.

  "Yes, sir," said Anderson, addressing the crowd, "I would have nabbedhim today if he hadn't gone an' hung himself like this. He must have gotonto the fact that I had him dead to rights. He knowed there wasn't anyescape for him,--no chance in the world. Wait a second! Don't all talkat once,--and don't ask questions! An' say, Abner, it won't do you anygood to go round to the _Banner_ office, because I swore Harry Squiresto secrecy. So stay where you are. Harry won't tell you a thing, even ifyour father-in-law is a regular subscriber. What time is it, Lum?"

  On being informed by Lum Gillespie that it was later than he thought,Marshal Crow looked at his own watch and arose in some haste.

  "By ginger, I got to get busy. I still got to see if I can find thatletter Jake received yesterday afternoon. I wouldn't be surprised if thecontents of that letter had a good deal to do with his hurryin' up thishangin' business. Like as not it was a warnin' from some confederate ofhis'n, lettin' him know I was gettin' purty hot on his trail. It'smighty hard to keep these th
ings from leakin' out, 'specially whenyou're workin' at long range as I've been fer some time. Myinvestigations have been carried on from one end of the country to theother. I finally got 'em narrowed down to a place out west calledSandusky, Ohio, an' I was just on the point of telegraphin' to thepolice out there that I had their man when this thing happens."

  He was assisted in his search for the letter by a volunteer organizationof about one hundred men and boys. The search was a most diligent one.Much to the disgust of Ed Higgins, the floor of Jake's sleepingapartment was yanked up by willing, excited citizens; the hay-mow wasransacked from one end to the other; the grain bins were turned insideout, and there was some talk of ripping off a section of the roof. Athalf past twelve o'clock, the marshal went home to his midday meal,leaving the work in charge of Lum Gillespie, the garage owner, whoselove for Mr. Higgins was governed entirely by the fact that theliveryman's business interfered considerably with his own prosperity.

  Secure in the seclusion of his own woodshed, Marshal Crow slyly withdrewJake's letter from an inside pocket and reread it with great care. Lateron, having fortified himself with a substantial dinner, he returned tothe hunt. Advising the toilers that he was going to do a little privatesearching, based on a "deduction" that had come to him while he was athome, he ambled off in the direction of Power House Gulley. Half an hourlater he reappeared and instructed the crowd to knock off work. He hadfound the letter just where he figured he would find it!

  "I don't see why in thunder you didn't figure it out at breakfastinstead of at dinner," growled Ed Higgins, moodily surveying thewreckage. "I've a notion to sue you for damages. Look at that box-stall!Look at that--"

  "Never mind, Ed; I'll have Lum an' the rest of 'em put everything backin order, jest as they found it. Now, you fellers get to work and putthings in shape around here. I'm goin' to take this letter over an' showit to Harry Squires. It proves everything,--absolutely everything. Seehere, Alf,--what in thunder are you doin' here? Why ain't you guardin'them remains as I told you to do?"

  "I _am_ guardin' 'em," said Alf. "I c'n guard 'em just as well from adistance as I can close up, an' you know it. All I got to do is to walkto the corner there an' I c'n see Hawkins's place as plain as anything.I could see it from right here if it wasn't fer Lamson's store an' theGrand View Hotel."

  The marshal gave him a look of bitter scorn, and strode away. The crowdstraggled along behind. Anderson stopped at the _Banner_ office doorand, exposing the dirty envelope to the eager gaze of the crowd, advisedevery one present to step in and take out a year's subscription to thepaper. Then he disappeared. The crowd surged forward, filling the outeroffice with something like sardine compactness. The door to Mr.Squires's private office, however, closed sharply behind Mr. Crow, andfor the next fifteen or twenty minutes the young lady bookkeeper wasbusy taking subscriptions from the disappointed throng. She gotsixty-three new subscribers and definite promises from a large number ofcitizens who were considerably in arrears.

  "You'll see it all in your paper tomorrow morning," said Anderson,coming out of the inner office at the end of half an hour's consultationwith the editor. "All I can say to you now is that I have captured oneof the most desperate criminals in the country. He has been wanted fornearly three years for a diabolical crime. It makes my flesh creep tothink of him being loose among our women an' children all this time. Isthere any one here who ain't subscribed to the _Banner_?"

  Tinkletown slept fitfully that night when it slept at all. The solecitizen enjoying a peaceful night's rest was Jake Miller. A singularcircumstance connected with the broken rest of three-fourths of thepeople of Tinkletown was the extraordinary unanimity with which Jakebecame visible to them the instant they did drop off to sleep.

  Bright and early the next morning, the _Banner_ appeared with itsgruesome story. Jake was in very large type, but not much larger, afterall, than Marshal Crow. The whilom Mr. Squires, revelling in generosity,gave Anderson all the credit. He held forth at great length on theachievements of the redoubtable marshal, winding up his account with arecommendation that a movement be inaugurated at once looking to theerection of a memorial statue to the famous "sleuth." The concludingsentence of this bold panegyric was as follows: "Do not wait till he isdead! Do it now!" And appended, in parentheses, the statement that the_Banner_ would head the list of subscribers with a contribution of onehundred dollars!

  In the body of his article, Mr. Squires printed in full the contents ofthe letter received by Jacob Miller on the afternoon before hisdeath,--the letter which had been recovered, after the most diligent andacute search by Marshal Crow, at the bottom of an abandoned well inPower House Gulley,--the letter which so completely vindicated thetheories and deductions of Tinkletown's most celebrated son.

  Jake's letter was from his brother in Sandusky. It warned him that theauthorities had finally located him in Tinkletown and that officers wereeven then on the way east to "pinch" him. They had run him down at last,despite the various aliases under which he had sought to avoidapprehension; brotherly love impelled him to advise Jake to "beat it" as"quick as possible." Moreover, he went on to state that if they got himhe'd "swing" as sure as hell. Brotherly interest no doubt was alsoresponsible for the frank admission that the "family" had done all itcould for him, and that if he had had a grain of sense, or had listenedto his friends, he wouldn't have married her in the first place. And ifhe hadn't married her, he wouldn't have been placed in a position wherehe had to beat her brains out. Not that she didn't deserve to have herbrains knocked out, and all that, but "you can't go around doing thatsort of thing without getting into trouble about it."

  In short, Jake--(by any other name he was just as guilty)--had slain hiswife, presumably in cold blood. At any rate, Mr. Squires, sustained bythe information received from Marshal Crow, (who had gone deeply intothe case), stated in cold type that it had been done in cold blood.

  Apparently Jake had decided that he was tired of dodging the inevitable.It was quite clear that he could not endure the thought of being "swung"for his diabolical deed.

  The account also stated that Marshal Crow had at once advised theWestern authorities by telegraph that he had their man, but regretted tostate the scoundrel had anticipated arrest in the manner now so wellknown to the readers of the _Banner_, long recognized as the mostenterprising newspaper in that part of the State of New York.

  A day or two later, after the inquest, an officer arrived from Sandusky.He was a spectator at the funeral of Jake Miller, whom he readilyidentified as the slayer of Mrs. Camp, and was afterwards a mostinterested listener to the recital given on Lamson's porch by MarshalCrow, who, described with considerable zest and surprising fidelity themanifold difficulties he had experienced in "running the criminal toearth,"--one of the most puzzling cases he had ever been called upon totackle.

  The astonished officer walked over to the Grand View Hotel with HarrySquires. From time to time he passed his hand over his brow in athoroughly puzzled manner.

  "I don't mind telling you, Mr. Squires," he blurted out at last, "thatwe hadn't the faintest idea that this fellow Camp was as desperate acharacter as all this. We looked upon him as a rather harmless,soft-headed guy,--but, my God, he turns out to be one of the slickestall-round crooks in the United States. No wonder he managed to give usthe slip all these years. It only goes to show how even the best of uscan be fooled in a man."

  "That's right," agreed Harry. "It certainly does show how you can befooled in a man."

  "When I get back home and tell 'em at headquarters what a slick duck hewas, they'll throw a fit. Why, by Gosh, we all thought he was a nut,--aplain nut."

  "Far be it from me," said Harry, "to speak ill of either the living orthe dead."

  "It's a wonder he didn't up and blow the head off this old Rube when hefound he was about to be cornered."

  Harry took that moment to relight his pipe, and then abruptly said "Goodnight" to the gentleman from Sandusky.

  As he rejoined the group in front of Lamson's, Marsha
l Crow was saying:

  "I'm mighty glad Harry Squires had sense enough not to say in the_Banner_ that as soon as Jake Miller found out that the jig was up, hetook the law in his own hands, and lynched himself."

  THE END