“You needen be ‘fraid, An’erson. I woulden hurt you fer whole United States. Where’s my hussam, An’erson?”
Marshal Crow looked hopelessly at the well-scattered witnesses who were taking in the scene from a respectful distance. Obviously it was his duty to do something. Not that he really felt that the deacon’s head should not be cut off by his long-suffering wife, but that it was hardly the proper thing for her to do it in public. Virtually every man in Tinkletown had declared, at one time or another, that Mrs. Rank ought to slit the old skinflint’s throat, or poison him, or set fire to him, or something of the sort, but, even though he agreed with them, the fact still remained that Marshal Crow considered it his duty to protect the deacon in this amazing crisis.
“Gimme that hatchet, Lucy Rank,” he commanded, with authority. “You ain’t yourself, an’ you know it. You gimme that hatchet an’ then lemme take 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 gimme that—”
“An’erson Crow, are you tryin’ inshult me?” she demanded, drawing herself up. “Wha’ you mean sayin’ I’m dunk,—drump? You know I never touched dropper anything. I’m the bes’ frien’ your wife’s got innis town an’ she—who’s ’at lookin’ out zat winner? Zat my hussam?”
Before the marshal could interfere, she blazed away at one of the windows in the Banner office. There was a crash of glass. She was now empty-handed but the startled guardian of the peace was slow to realize it. 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 and began to weep—and wail.
“I—I—love my hussam,—I love my hussam,—an’ I didden mean cuttiz ’ead off—I didden—I didden, An’erson. My hussam’s dead. My hussam’s head’s all 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 the matter with her, Anderson?”
The marshal gazed past him into the office. His eyes were charged with apprehension.
“Where—where’s the deacon’s head?” he gulped.
The editor did not hear him. He had eyes and ears only for the mumbling creature who dangled limply from the marshal’s neck; her face was hidden but her hat was very much in evidence. It was bobbing up and down on the back 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 in the lock. This was the signal for a general advance of all observers. Headed by Mr. Hawkins, the undertaker, they swarmed up the steps and crowded 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 the leading editorial. He proved to be a printer of the old school. After a soft, envious whistle he remarked:
“My God, I’d give a month’s pay for one like that,” and any one who has ever come in contact with an old-time printer will know precisely what he meant.
“Oh, my poor b’loved hussam,” murmured Mrs. Rank. “My poor b’loved hussam whass I have endured f’r twenty-fi’ years wiz aller Chrissen forcitude of—where is my poor hussam?”
She swept the floor with a hazy, uncertain look. Not observing anything that looked like a head, she turned a bleary, accusing eye upon Bill Smith, the printer, and there is no telling what she might have said to him if Harry Squires had not intervened.
“Sit down here, Mrs. Rank,—do. Your husband is all right. He was here a few minutes ago, and—which way did he go, Bill?”
“Out,” said Bill laconically, jerking his head in the direction of an open 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 all right,—quite all right. Please—”
“Where’s my hashet? Gimme my hashet. I insiss on my hashet. I gotter cuttiz ’ead off. Never ress in my grave till I cuttiz ’ead off.”
Presently they succeeded in quieting her. She sat limply in an arm-chair, brought from the front office, and stared pathetically up into 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. “Maybe she 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 stock of hard cider, that’s what she’s been doing.”
“Impossible! He’s our leadin’ church-member. He ain’t got any hard cider. He’s dead-set ag’inst intoxicatin’ liquors. I’ve heard him say it a 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 an additional shock to Anderson. The amazing potency of strong drink was here being exemplified as never before in the history of Time. A sober Lucy Rank would no more have called any one a liar than she would have cursed her Maker. Such an expression from the lips of the meek and down-trodden martyr was unbelievable,—and the way she said it! Not even Pat Murphy, the coal-wagon driver, with all his years of practice, could have said it with greater distinctness,—not even Pat who possessed the masculine right to amplify the behest with expletives not supposed to be uttered except in the presence of his own sex.
“She’ll be swearing next,” said Bill Smith, after a short silence. “I couldn’t stand that,” he went on, taking his coat from a peg in the wall.
Mr. Squires took the lady in hand.
“If you will just be patient for a little while, Mrs. Rank, Bill will go out and find your husband and bring him here at once. In the meantime, I will see that your hatchet is sharpened up, and put in first-class order for the sacrifice. Go on, Bill. Fetch the lady’s husband.” He winked at the departing Bill. “We’ve got to humour her,” he said in an aside to Anderson. “These hard-cider jags are the worst in the world. The saying is that a quart of hard cider would start a free-for-all fight in heaven. Excuse me, Mrs. Rank, while I fix your nice new hat for you. It isn’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 then smiled.
“My hussam tol’ you to shay that,” said she, shaking her finger at him.
“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 responded nobly.) “Now, while we are waiting for Mr. Rank, perhaps you will tell us just why you want to cut his head off today. What has the old villain been up to lately?”
She composed herself for the recital. The two men looked down at her with pity in their eyes.
“He d’sherted me today,—abon—abonimably d’sherted me. For’n Missionary S’ciety met safternoon at our house. All ladies in S’ciety met our house. Deac’n tol’ me be generous—givvem all the r’fressmens they wanted. 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 brow wrinkled in thought. “Lesh see—where was I?”
“In the parlour?” supplied Anderson, helpfully.
She shook her head impatiently. “I mean where was I talki
n’ ’bout? Oh, yesh,—’bout shider. When Woman For’n Missinary S’ciety come I givvem shider,—lots shider. No harm in shider, An’erson,—so don’ look like that. Deacon shays baby could drink barrel shider an—and sho on an’ sho forth. 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 have shong-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’n shing bass an’ tenor’n ev’thing else, she can. She—”
“Where—where are they now?” demanded Anderson, with a wild look at Harry.
“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? He desherted all of us—all of For’n Missinary S’ciety. I gotter bring ‘im back, deader ’live. Wannim to lead in shong shervice. My hussam’s got loudes’ 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 town to 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 wet forehead.
“An’ so’s the deacon,” added Anderson. “See here, Harry, I got to hustle up to the deacon’s house an’ see what c’n be done with them women. My lordy! The town will be disgraced if they get out on the street an’—why, like as not, they’ll start a parade or somethin’. You stay here an’ watch her, an’ I’ll—”
“No, you don’t, my friend,” broke in Harry gruffly. “You get her out of this 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 what you’re afraid of.”
“If you’d been attending to your job as a good, competent official of this benighted town, the poor, helpless little woman wouldn’t be in the condition 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 have 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 Bru
backer. “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.”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 281