hat was perched rakishly at a perilous angle
over one ear. A subsequent shifting to an even more precarious position
over the other ear, as the result of a swift, inaccurate sweep of the
lady's hand, created an instant impression that it was attached to her
drab, disordered hair by means of a new-fangled but absolutely
dependable magnet. Never before had Marshal Crow seen that ancient hat
so much as the fraction of an inch out of "plumb" with the bridge of
Mrs. Rank's undeviating nose.

She approached airily. Her forlorn little person was erect, even
soldierly. Indeed, if anything, she was a shade too erect at times. At
such times she appeared to be in some danger of completely forgetting
her equilibrium. She stepped high, as the saying is, and without her
usual precision. In a word, the meek and retiring wife of Deacon Rank
was hilariously drunk!

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 hopele