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Pedestrians, far and near, stopped stockstill in their tracks to gaze open-mouthed at the jaunty drudge; storekeepers peered wide-eyed and incredulous from windows and doors. If you suddenly had asked any one of them when the world was coming to an end, he would have replied without the slightest hesitation.

She bore down upon the petrified Mr. Crow.

“Is zat you, An’erson?” she inquired, coming to an uncertain stop at the foot of the steps. Where–oh, where! was the subdued, timorous voice of Sister Rank? Whose–oh, whose! were the shrill and fearless tones that issued forth from the lips of the deacon’s wife?

“For the Lord’s sake, Lucy,–wha–what ails you?” gasped the horrified marshal.

“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 implement that 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 you goin’ 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 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.