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But in spite of Uncle Dad’s sage conclusions, it was this very prohibition question that was disturbing Anderson Crow. He sauntered into the Banner office late one afternoon in May and planked himself down in a chair beside the editor’s desk. There was a troubled look in his eyes, which gave way to vexation after he had made three or four fruitless 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 and spell it the easiest way. That’s the way the dictionary spells it, so I guess 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 in this neighbourhood last summer and fall, Harry?”

“Not the least.”

“Well, sir, it was the biggest we’ve had since 1902, ‘specially the fall pickin.”

“What’s the idea? Do you want me to put something in the Banner about Bramble County’s bumper crop of pippins?”

“No. I just want to ask you if there’s anything in this new prohibition amendment against apple cider?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Well, do you know it’s impossible to buy a good eatin’ or cookin’ apple in 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 or barrel,–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 with singular intentness.

“Was you ever drunk on hard cider?” he inquired at last,–transferring his gaze to the rapidly moving hand that held the pencil.

The reporter jabbed a period,–or “full stop,” as they call it in a certain form of literature,–in the middle of a sentence, and looked up with sudden interest.

“Yes,” he said, with considerable force. “I’ll never forget it. You can get tighter on hard cider than anything else I know of.”

“Well, there you are,” exclaimed the Marshal, banging his gnarled fist on the arm of the chair. “And as far as I c’n make out, there ain’t no law ag’inst cider stayin’ in the barrel long enough to get good and hard, an’ what’s more, there ain’t no law ag’ainst sellin’ cider, hard or sweet, is there?”

“I get your point, Anderson. And I also get your deductions concerning the mysterious disappearance of all the apples in Tinkletown. Apparently we are to have a shortage of dried apples this year, with an overflow of hard cider instead. By George, it’s interesting, to say the least. Looks as though an apple orchard is likely to prove more valuable than a gold mine, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir! ‘Specially if you’ve got trees that bear in the fall. Fall apples make the best cider. They ain’t so mushy. And as fer the feller that owns a cider-press, why, dog-gone it, he ought to be as rich as Crowsis.”

“I seem to recall that you have a cider-press on your farm on Crow’s Mountain,–and a whacking good orchard, too. Are you thinking of resigning as Marshal of Tinkletown?”

“What say?”

“I see you’re not,” went on Harry. “Of course you understand you can’t very well manufacture hard cider and sell it and still retain your untarnished reputation as a defender of the law.”

“I’m not figurin’ on makin’ hard cider,” said Anderson, with some irritation. “You don’t make hard cider, Harry. It makes itself. All you do is to rack the apple juice off into a barrel, or something, with a little yeast added, and then leave it to do the work. It ferments an’ then, if you want to, you rack it off again an’ bottle it an’–well, gee whiz, how tight you c’n get on it if you ain’t got sense enough to let it alone. But I ain’t thinkin’ about what I’m goin’ to do, ’cause I ain’t to do anything but make applebutter out of my orchard,–an’ maybe a little cider-vinegar fer home consumption. What’s worryin’ me is what to do about all these other people around here. If they all take to makin’ cider this fall,–or even sooner,–an’ if they bottle or cask it proper,–we’ll have enough hard cider in this township to give the whole state of New York the delirium trimmins.”