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“It ain’t our fault if you married a woman twice as big as you are,” was the marshal’s stern rejoinder. “Now, remember the plan. We’re just droppin’ in to surprise ’em, to sort of join in the service. Don’t fer the land’s sake, let ’em see we’re uneasy about ’em. We got to use diplomacy. Look pleasant, ever’body,–look happy. Now, then,–forward march! Laugh, dern you, Alf!”

Once more they advanced, chatting volubly, and with faces supposed to be wholly free from anxiety. The merest glance, however, would have penetrated the mask of unconcern. Every man’s eye belied his lips.

“I make a motion that we tar an’ feather Deacon Rank,” said Newt Spratt, as the foremost neared the porch.

Anderson halted them abruptly.

“I want to warn you men right now, that I’m going to search all the cellars in town tomorrow, so you might as well be prepared to empty all your cider into Smock’s Crick. You don’t need to say you ain’t got any on hand. I’ve been investigatin’ for several weeks, an’ I want to tell you right here an’ now that I’ve got every cask an’ every bottle of hard cider in Tinkletown spotted. I know what’s become of every derned apple that was raised in this township last year.”

Dead silence followed this heroic speech. Citizens looked at each other, and Situate M. Jones might have been heard to mutter something about “an all-seeing Providence.”

Ed Higgins lamely explained that he had “put up a little for vinegar,” but Anderson merely smiled.

The front door of the house flew open and several of the first ladies of Tinkletown crowded into view. An invisible choir was singing the Doxology.

“Hello, boys!” called out Mrs. Jones, cheerily. “Come right in! Where’s zat nice old deacon?”

“Been waiting for him for nawful long time,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Couldn’t wait any louder,–I mean longer.”

“You had it right the first time,” said her husband.

“Just in time for Doxology,” called out Mrs. Jones. “Then we’re all going down town to hol’ open-air temp-rance meet-meeting.”

* * * * *

Late that evening, Marshal Crow mounted the steps leading to Dr. Brown’s office and rang the bell. He rang it five or six times without getting any response. Then he opened the door and walked in. The doctor was out. On a table inside the door lay the slate on which people left word for him to come to their houses as soon as he returned. The Marshal put on his glasses and took up the pencil to write. One side of the slate was already filled with hurried scribbling. He squinted and with difficulty made out that Dr. Brown was wanted immediately at the homes of Situate M. Jones, Abbie Nixon, Newton Spratt, Mort Fryback, Professor Rank, Rev. Maltby and Joseph P. Singer. He sighed and shook his head sadly. Then he moistened a finger and erased the second name on the list, that of Mrs. Abbie Nixon.

“Husbands first,” he muttered in justification of his action in substituting the following line:

“Come at once. A. Crow, Marshal of Tinkletown.”

Compunction prevailed, however. He wrote the word “over” at the bottom and, turning the slate over, cleared his conscience by jotting down Mrs. Nixon’s “call” at the top of the reverse side. Replacing it on the table, he went away. Virtue was its own reward in this instance at least, for the worthy marshal neglected to put the slate down as he had found it. Mrs. Nixon’s “call” alone was visible.

He set out to find Harry Squires. That urbane gentleman was smoking his reportorial corn-cob in the rear of Lamson’s store. Except for Lamson’s clerk, who had seized the rare opportunity to delve uninterruptedly into the mysteries of the latest “Nick Carter,” the store was empty. The usual habitues were absent.

“Did you get her home?” inquired Anderson in a low, cautious tone.

“I did,” said Harry.

“See anything of the deacon?”

“No; but Bill Smith did. Bill saw him down at the crick an hour or so ago, knocking in the heads of three or four barrels. Do you know what I’ve been thinking, Anderson? If somebody would only empty a barrel or so of olive oil into Smock’s Crick before morning, we’d have the foundation for the largest supply of French dressing ever created in the history of the world.”

Mr. Crow looked scandalized. “Good gosh, Harry, ain’t we had enough scandal in this here town today without addin’ anything French to it?”

* * * * *

The only moral to be attached to this story lies in the brief statement that Mrs. Crow’s indisposition, slight in duration though it was, so occupied Mr. Crow’s attention that by the time he was ready to begin his search the second night after the song service, there wasn’t so much as a pint of hard cider to be found in Tinkletown. This condition was due in a large measure, no doubt, to the fact that Smock’s Creek is an unusually swift little stream. It might even be called turbulent.