nderneath 'em. Was it a bright notion?
Well, I'd smile. If it don't beat the whole blamed circus. Is there a
p'liceman in the country 'ud chase up a Meetin' House for liquor? Not
on your life. That dope was as safe right there from discovery as if
it was stored in the United States Treasury. Say, them guys was smart.
Smart? Hell--say--what's that?"

Excited voices were talking and calling loudly beyond the walls of the
ruined building. Even amid the dark surroundings of the cellars
O'Brien and his companions detected the words "police" and "patrol."

Ready for any fresh interest forthcoming, the saloonkeeper clambered
hurriedly out of the cellar with the other men close behind him. They
mounted the broken walls and looked out upon the crowd.

All eyes were turned along the trail coming up from the village, and
O'Brien followed the direction of their gaze. A half-spring police
wagon, followed closely by a wagon, which many recognized as that of
Charlie Bryant, were coming up the trail, escorted by Inspector Fyles
and a patrol of police troopers. The horses were walking slowly, and
as they approached a hush fell upon the crowd of spectators.

Suddenly Stanley Fyles urged his horse forward, and came on at a rapid
canter. He pulled up at the ruined building and looked about him,
first at the wreckage and then at the silent throng. Then, as he
beheld O'Brien standing on the wall, he pointed at the ruins.

"An--accident?" he inquired sharply.

O'Brien's eyes twinkled.

"A damn piece of foolish play by folks who orter know better," he
said. "They tried wreckin' this durned old tree an' succeeded in
wreckin' the soul laundry o' this yer village. Mebbe, too, you'll find
things down under it to interest you, inspector. I don't guess you'd
be lookin' for whisky an' religion goin' hand in hand, so to speak."

The officer's eyes were sharply questioning.

"How's that?"

"Why, the cellars are full o' kegs of good rye--some full, some empty.
Gee, but I'd hate spilling it."

The wagons had come up, and now it was to be seen that coarse police
blankets were laid out over them, the soft material displaying
something of the ominous figures hidden under them.

"Say----" cried the startled saloonkeeper, and paused, as his quick
eyes observed these signs. Then, in an excited voice, he went on.
"Say, them--wagons--are loaded some."

Fyles nodded.

"I was bringing 'em along to have them laid out here--in the Meeting
House, be