Anderson Crow, Detective Part 43

"In the parlour?" supplied Anderson, helpfully.

She shook her head impatiently. "I mean where was I talkin' 'bout? Oh, yesh,--'bout s.h.i.+der. When Woman For'n Missinary S'ciety come I givvem s.h.i.+der,--lots s.h.i.+der. No harm in s.h.i.+der, An'erson,--so don' look like that. Deacon shays baby could drink barrel s.h.i.+der an--and sho on an' sho forth. Well, For'n Missinary S'ciety all havin' splennid time,--singin'

'n' prayin' 'n' sho on 'n' sho forth, an'--an' sho on 'n' sho forth.

Then your wife, An'erson, she jumps up 'n' shays we gotter have shong-shervice,--reg'ler shong shervice. She--"

"_My_ wife?" exclaimed Anderson. "Was Eva Crow there?"

"Shert'nly. Never sho happy 'n' her life. Couldn't b'lieve my eyes 'n'

ears. And Sister Jones too,--your bosh's wife, Misser Squires. Say, d'you ever know she could s.h.i.+ng ba.s.s? Well, she can, all right. She c'n s.h.i.+ng ba.s.s an' tenor'n ev'thing else, she can. She--"

"Where--where are they now?" demanded Anderson, with a wild look at Harry.

"Who? The Woman For'n Missionary S'ciety?"

"Yes. For heaven's sake, don't tell me they're loose on the street!"

"Not mus.h.!.+ Promished me they wait till I capshered my hussam, deader 'live, an' bring 'im 'ome. Didden I tell you my hussam desherted me? He desherted all of us--all of For'n Missinary S'ciety. I gotter bring 'im back, deader 'live. Wannim to lead in shong shervice. My hussam's got loudes' voice in town. Leads s.h.i.+ngin' in chursh 'n' prayer meetin' 'n'

ever 'where else. Loudes' voice in town, tha.s.s what he is. Prays loudes'

of anybody, too. All ladies waitin' up my house f'r loudes voice in town to lead 'em in shacred shong. Muss have somebody with loud voice to lead 'em. La.s.s I heard of 'em they was all s.h.i.+ngin' differen' shongs.

Loudes' voice--lou'st voich--lou--"

She slumbered.

The marshal and the editor looked at each other.

"Well, she's safe for the time being," said the latter, wiping his wet forehead.

"An' so's the deacon," added Anderson. "See here, Harry, I got to hustle up to the deacon's house an' see what c'n be done with them women. My lordy! The town will be disgraced if they get out on the street an'--why, like as not, they'll start a parade or somethin'. You stay here an' watch her, an' I'll--"

"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. Sh.e.l.lback 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 a.s.sume 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 d.a.m.ned 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. Sh.e.l.lback 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 hara.s.sed 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 his hea.r.s.e."

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, c.o.c.king 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 that the one she's singin'?"

"Certainly not. I said it goes _this_ way. That's somebody else you hear, Mort."

"Hear that?" cried Ed Higgins excitedly. "That's 'Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt!' My wife's favourite. My Lord, Anderson, what's to be done?"

"Keep still!" ordered Anderson. "I'm tryin' to see if I c'n make out my wife's singin'!"

"Well, we got to do somethin'," groaned Newt Spratt, whose wife was organist in the Pond Road Church. "She'll bust that piano all to smash if she keeps on like that."

"Come on, gentlemen," said Anderson, compressing his lips. "Remember now, every man selects his own wife. Every--"

"Wait a minute, Anderson," pleaded George Brubacker. "It'll take more than me to manage my wife if she gets stubborn."