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“Oh, George, I’ve found it! I’ve got the key. It was away down in my muff.”

Before any action could be taken to restrain the impetuous young woman, she was inserting the key in the lock!

Those nearest her collided violently with those farther away, and in less time than it takes to mention it, there was no one within a radius of fifty feet–except a new arrival on the scene.

To the intense horror of Mort Fryback, his wife emerged from the Grand View Hotel and entered the danger zone.

“Hey, Maude!” he bellowed. “Keep away from that! For the love of–” He clapped his hand over his eyes. Mrs. Fryback had reached the side of the eager Mrs. Fox just as that lady lifted the lid of the box.

Now, Mrs. Fryback was Mort’s third wife; according to longevity statistics, she was much too young to die. As a matter of fact, she was little more than a bride. That probably accounts for the brand-new mink coat and muff she was sporting. Moreover, it accounts for Mort’s surprising mendacity and even more amazing humility in relation to the taking-off of Mike. No doubt in similar circumstances, he would have told his second wife, who died when she was pretty well along in years, that he’d show her who was boss in his home, and if she didn’t like what he did to Mike, she could lump it. But, alas, between a vacillating young wife who has you under her thumb and a constant old one who has been thoroughly squashed under yours for a great many years, there is a world of difference.

Others who stared in horror at the picture on the porch, groaned audibly as young Mrs. Fox looked up into the face of the unsuspecting victim and smiled. Thus encouraged, young Mrs. Fryback, disdaining death, smiled in return and stooped over to look into the depths of that unspeakable box. Instead of starting back in alarm, she uttered a shrill little cry of delight, and dropping to her knees plunged both hands into the nest of wriggling horrors!

Lucius Fry, who had hastily set up the step-ladder, and was now balancing himself somewhat precariously at the top of it, let out a lugubrious howl.

“She’s a goner!” he announced.

The two young women had their heads close together and were conversing. Marshal Crow, armed with the double barreled shotgun, began a cautious circuitous advance, his finger on the trigger.

He stopped short when about twenty feet from the women, and spasmodically pulled the trigger. There is no telling what might have happened if the gun had been loaded.

Mr. Fox had deliberately overturned the box and–out scampered three sprightly Boston terrier puppies!

Ten minutes later all but one of Mort Fryback’s farming utensils were back in stock. The missing implement, a hatchet, was furtively on its way to the barber-shop of one Ebenezer January, coloured.

Mr. and Mrs. Fryback, Marshal Crow and the amiable Foxes discussed the “points” of the frolicsome puppies in the rear of the hardware store.

“I just adore this one, Mrs. Fox,” said Mrs. Fryback, pointing to a rugged little rascal who was patiently gnawing at Mr. Fryback’s peg-leg. “Do you really recommend him as the best of the lot, Mr. Fox?” she inquired, turning her shining eyes upon the gentleman.

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Fox. “Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Crow?”

“Ab-so-lutely,” said Anderson.

“Then I’ll take him,” said Mort’s wife, and Mort not only sighed but wiped a fine coat of moisture from his brow. “One hundred dollars is the very least you will take?”

“The very least, Mrs. Fryback. He is a thoroughbred, you know. My kennels are famous, as you doubtless noted in my advertisement in Town and Country–and I can personally guarantee every pup that comes out of them. In your letter to me, Mrs. Fryback, you stated that only the best I had on hand would be considered. The mother of these puppies has a pedigree a yard long, and the father, as I mentioned before, is Stubbs the Twelfth. Nothing more need be said. The mother, Bonnie Bridget, you have just seen. Stubbs the Twelfth belongs to a millionaire in Albany. Allow me to congratulate you, madam,”–extending his hand,–“on having secured one of the finest dogs in America. And you also, Mr. Fryback, on having a wife who is such a discriminating judge of thoroughbreds.”

Mr. Fryback looked a trifle startled, but said nothing.

“If you ever come to our town, Mr. Crow, I hope you will look us up,” broke in Mr. Fox. “Our place is about two miles out in the country. By the way, has Mrs. Crow a good dog–I mean one that she can be proud of?”

“She has a thoroughbred setter,” said Marshal Crow, compressing his lips.

“A hundred dollars is a lot of money fer a dog,” murmured Mr. Fryback. He met his wife’s eye for a second and then added: “But, of course, my wife has just lost one that was worth a thousand dollars, so–I guess it ain’t so much, after all.”

“Marmaduke was a really wonderful dog, Mrs. Fox,” vouchsafed Mort’s wife, assuming a sad and pensive expression.

“I am sure he must have been,” said Mrs. Fox.

“One hundred dollars is very cheap, sir, for a thoroughbred Boston terrier in these days,” said Mr. Fox. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Crow?”

“Cheap as dirt,” said Anderson.

“Mortimer, will you please give Mr. Fox the money?” said Mrs. Fryback. “And, by the way, Mr. Crow, I hope you take down all those reward notices at once. I wouldn’t know what to do with Marmaduke now, even if some one did bring him back to me.”

“I know what I’d order you to do with him,” said Anderson, meeting Mort’s melancholy gaze at last.

“What, may I inquire?”

“I’d order you to bury him,” said the town marshal, speaking in his capacity as chairman of the Board of Health.

Mrs. Fryback looked at him steadily for a second or two, and then slowly closed an eye.