her head.

"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