ld deacon?"

"Been waiting for him for nawful long time," said Mrs. Pratt. "Couldn't
wait any louder,--I mean longer."

"You had it right the first time," said her husband.

"Just in time for Doxology," called out Mrs. Jones. "Then we're all
going down town to hol' open-air temp-rance meet-meeting."

* * * * *

Late that evening, Marshal Crow mounted the steps leading to Dr. Brown's
office and rang the bell. He rang it five or six times without getting
any response. Then he opened the door and walked in. The doctor was out.
On a table inside the door lay the slate on which people left word for
him to come to their houses as soon as he returned. The Marshal put on
his glasses and took up the pencil to write. One side of the slate was
already filled with hurried scribbling. He squinted and with difficulty
made out that Dr. Brown was wanted immediately at the homes of Situate
M. Jones, Abbie Nixon, Newton Spratt, Mort Fryback, Professor Rank, Rev.
Maltby and Joseph P. Singer. He sighed and shook his head sadly. Then he
moistened a finger and erased the second name on the list, that of Mrs.
Abbie Nixon.

"Husbands first," he muttered in justification of his action in
substituting the following line:

"Come at once. A. Crow, Marshal of Tinkletown."

Compunction prevailed, however. He wrote the word "over" at the bottom
and, turning the slate over, cleared his conscience by jotting down Mrs.
Nixon's "call" at the top of the reverse side. Replacing it on the
table, he went away. Virtue was its own reward in this instance at
least, for the worthy marshal neglected to put the slate down as he had
found it. Mrs. Nixon's "call" alone was visible.

He set out to find Harry Squires. That urbane gentleman was smoking his
reportorial corn-cob in the rear of Lamson's store. Except for Lamson's
clerk, who had seized the rare opportunity to delve uninterruptedly into
the mysteries of the latest "Nick Carter," the store was empty. The
usual habitues were absent.

"Did you get her home?" inquired Anderson in a low, cautious tone.

"I did," said Harry.

"See anything of the deacon?"

"No; but Bill Smith did. Bill saw him down at the crick an hour or so
ago, knocking in the heads of three or four barrels. Do you know what
I've been thinking, Anderson? If somebody would only empty a barrel or
so of olive oil into Smock's Crick before morning, we'd have the
foundation for the largest supply of Fre