nlightenment.

Anderson made a valiant effort to conceal his astonishment. Assuming a
more or less indifferent air, he calmly remarked:

"I knowed Jake was a little under the weather, but I didn't think it was
serious? When did he die?"

"He didn't die," said Newt. "He hung himself."

"What's that?" gasped Anderson, his jaw sagging.

"Hung himself some time last night," went on Newt joyously. "From a
rafter in Ed Higgins's livery stable. With a clothesline. Kicked a
step-ladder out from under himself. Why, even Uncle Dad Simms has heard
about it. Ed found him when he went out to--wait a second! I'm goin'
your way. What's the rush? He's been dead six or eight hours. He can't
escape. He's down in Hawkins's undertaking place. Hey! You dropped your
pipe. Don't you want it any--"

"If you're goin' my way, you'll have to _run_," called out Marshal Crow
as he unlimbered his long legs and made for the mouth of the alley. He
was not running, but Newt, being an undersized individual, had no other
means of keeping up with him unless he obeyed the sardonic behest. For
ten or fifteen rods, Mr. Spratt jogged faithfully at the heels of the
leader, and then suddenly remembered that it was a long way to Hawkins's
Undertaking Emporium in Sickle street,--at least an eighth of a mile as
the crow flies,--and as he already had had a hard day's work, he slowed
down to a walk and then to a standstill. He concluded to wait till some
one came along in a wagon or an automobile. There wasn't any use wasting
his valuable breath in running. Much better to save it for future use.
In the meantime, by standing perfectly still, he could ruminate to his
heart's content.

Marshal Crow's long strides soon carried him to the corner of Maple
Street, where he made a sharp turn to the right, shooting a swift look
over his shoulder as he did so. His late companion was leaning against a
tree. Satisfied that he had completely thrown Mr. Spratt off the trail,
Anderson took a short cut through Justice of the Peace Robb's front and
back yards and eventually emerged into Main Street, where he slackened
his pace to a dignified saunter.

He caught sight of Alf Reesling, the reformed town drunkard, holding
conversation from the sidewalk with some one in a second story window of
Mrs. Judy O'Ryan's boarding house, half a block away.

"Hello!" shouted Alf, discovering the marshal. "Here he comes now. Where
you been all morning, Andy? I been huntin' everywhere for