is
hearse."

Mr. Squires put his hand over his mouth and looked away. When he turned
back to the unhappy official, his voice was gentler.

"You leave her to me, old fellow. I'll take care of her. She can stay
here till after dark and I'll see that she gets home all right."

"By gosh, Harry, you're a real friend. I--I won't ferget this,--no, sir,
never!"

"What are you going to do first?"

"I'm goin' to get my wife out of that den of iniquity and take her
home!" said Anderson resolutely.

"Whether she's willing,--or not?"

"Don't you worry. I got that all thought out. If she won't let me take
her home, I'll let on as if I'm full and then she'll insist on takin' me
home."

With that he was gone.

The crowd in front of the _Banner_ office now numbered at least a
hundred. Mr. Crow stopped at the top of the steps and swiftly ran his
eye over the excited throng. He was thinking hard and quite
rapidly--for him. All the while the crowd was shouting questions at him,
he was deliberately counting noses. Suddenly he held up his hand. There
was instant, expectant silence.

"All husbands who possess wives in the Woman's Foreign Missionary
Society kindly step forward. Make way there, you people,--let 'em
through. This way, Newt,--an' you, Alf,--come on, Elmer K.,--I said
'wives,' Mrs. Fry, not husbands. All husbands please congregate in the
alley back of the _Banner_ office an' wait fer instructions. Don't ask
questions. Just do as I tell you. Hey, you kids! Run over an' tell Mort
Fryback an' Ed Higgins an' Situate M. Jones I want 'em right away,--an'
George Brubaker. Tell him to lock up his store if he has to, but to come
at once. Now, you women keep back! This is fer men only."

In due time a troubled, anxious group of men sallied forth from the
alley back of the _Banner_ office, and, headed by Anderson Crow, marched
resolutely down Sickle Street to Maple and advanced upon the house of
Deacon Rank.

The song service was in full blast. The men stopped at the bottom of the
yard and listened with sinking hearts.

"That's my wife," said Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer, a bleak look in
his eyes. "She knows that tune by heart."

"Which tune?" asked Mort Fryback, cocking his ear.

"Why, the one she's singin'," said Elmer. "Now listen,--it goes this
way." He hummed a few bars of 'The Rosary.' "Don't you get it? There!
Why, you must be deef. I can't hear anything else."

"The only one I can make out is 'Tipperary.' Is