ssly 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