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“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?”