"No, you don't, my friend," broke in Harry gruffly. "You get her out of
this office as quickly as you can."

"Are you afraid to be left alone with that pore, helpless little woman?"
demanded Anderson. "I'll take her hatchet away with me, if that's what
you're afraid of."

"If you'd been attending to your job as a good, competent official of
this benighted town, the poor, helpless little woman wouldn't be in the
condition she's in now. You--"

"Hold on there! What do you mean by that?"

"I mean this, Mr. Shellback Holmes. A dozen people in this town have
been buying up apples and grinding them and making cider of them as fast
as they could cask it ever since last January. Making it right under
your nose, and this is the first you've seen of it. There's enough hard
cider in Tinkletown at this minute to pickle an army. See those bottles
over there under Bill's stool? Well, old Deacon Rank left 'em there
because he was afraid he'd bust 'em when he made his exit through that
window. He told Bill Smith he could keep them, if he would assume his
indebtedness to this office,--two dollars and a quarter,--and he also
told Bill that he could guarantee that it was good stuff! We've got
visible proof of it here, and we also know how the damned old rascal
went about testing the quality of his wares. He has tried it out on the
most highly respected ladies in town, that's what he's done,--and why?
Because it was the _cheapest_ way to do it. He didn't have to waste more
than a quart on the whole bunch of 'em. Sure fire stuff! And there are
barrels of it in this town, Mr. Shellback Holmes, waiting to be
converted into song. Now, the first thing you've got to do is to take
this unfortunate result of prohibition home and put her to bed."

Anderson sat down heavily.

"My sakes, Harry,--I--I--why, this is turrible! My wife drunk,
an'--an'--Mrs. Jones, an' Mrs. Nixon, an'--"

"Yes, sir," said Harry heartlessly; "they probably are lit up like the
sunny side of the moon, and what's more, my friend, if they _do_ take it
into their poor, beaddled heads to go out and paint the town, there
won't be any stopping 'em. Hold on! Didn't you hear what I said about
the case in hand? You take her home, do you hear?"

"But--how am I to get her home? I--I can't carry her through the
streets," groaned the harassed marshal.

"Hire an automobile, or a delivery-wagon, or--what say?"

"I was just sayin' that maybe I could get Lem Hawkins to loan me h