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“I don’t see that you can do anything, Anderson,” said Squires, leaning back in his chair and puffing at his pipe. “You can’t keep people from making cider, you know. And you can’t keep ’em from drinking it. Besides, who’s going to take the trouble to ascertain whether it contains one-half of one percent alcohol? What interests me more than anything else is the possibility of this township becoming ‘wet’ in spite of itself,–an’ to my certain knowledge, it has been up to now the barrenest desert on God’s green earth.”

“People are so all-fired contrary,” Anderson complained. “For the last fifty years the citizens of this town and its suburbs have been so dead set ag’inst liquor that if a man went up to Boggs City an’ got a little tipsy he had to run all the way home so’s he’d be out of breath when he got there. Nobody ever kept a bottle of whiskey in his house, ’cause nobody 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’re going to put in. An’ any day you want to drive out in the country you c’n see farmers an’ hired men treatin’ the apple-trees as if they was the tenderest plants a-growin’. I heard this mornin’ that Henry Wimpelmeyer is to put in a cider-press at his tanyard, an’ old man Smock’s turnin’ his grist mill into an apple-mill. An’ everybody is hoardin’ apples, Harry. It beats the Dutch.”

“It’s up to you to frustrate their nefarious schemes, Mr. Hawkshaw. The fair name of the Commonwealth must be preserved. I use the word advisedly. It sounds a great deal better than ‘pickled.’ Now, do you want me to begin a campaign in the Banner against the indiscriminate and mendacious hardening of apple-cider, or am I to leave the situation entirely 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 chanced this 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,” he said.

“I ain’t so sure about that,” said Anderson, eyeing him narrowly. “Hold on! What’s your hurry?”

“I–I got to step in here and pay my subscription to the Banner,” said the deacon.

“Well, that’s something nobody’ll believe when they hear about it,” said Anderson. “It’ll be mighty hard fer the proprieter of the Banner to believe it after all these years.”

“Times have been so dog-goned hard fer the last couple of years, I ain’t really been able to–“

“Too bad about you,” broke in Anderson scornfully.

“Everything costs so much in these days,” protested the deacon. “I ain’t had a new suit of clothes fer seven or eight years. Can’t afford ’em. My wife was sayin’ only last night she needed a new hat,–somethin’ she can wear all the year round,–but goodness knows this ain’t no time to be thinkin’ of hats. She–“

“She ain’t had a new hat fer ten years,” interrupted Anderson. “No wonder the pore woman’s ashamed to go to church.”

“What’s that? Who says she’s ashamed to go to church? Anybody that says my 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’s tryin’ to save it, that’s what she’s tryin’ to do. She knows it’s got to last her five or six years more, an’ how in tarnation can she make it last 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 family affairs any–“