"One hundred dollars is very cheap, sir, for a thoroughbred Boston terrier in these days," said Mr. Fox. "Isn't that so, Mr. Crow?" "Cheap as dirt," said Anderson. "Mortimer, will you please give Mr. Fox the money?" said Mrs. Fryback. "And, by the way, Mr. Crow, I hope you take down all those reward notices at once. I wouldn't know what to do with Marmaduke now, even if some one did bring him back to me." "I know what I'd order you to do with him," said Anderson, meeting Mort's melancholy gaze at last. "What, may I inquire?" "I'd order you to bury him," said the town marshal, speaking in his capacity as chairman of the Board of Health. Mrs. Fryback looked at him steadily for a second or two, and then slowly closed an eye. SHADES OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN! It wasn't often that Marshal Crow acknowledged that he was in a quandary. When he _did_ find himself in that rare state of mind, he invariably went to Harry Squires, the editor of the _Banner_, for counsel--but never for advice. He had in the course of a protracted career as preserver of the peace and dignity of Tinkletown, found himself confronted by seemingly unsolvable mysteries, but he always had succeeded in unravelling them, one way or another, to his own complete satisfaction. Only the grossest impudence on the part of the present chronicler would permit the tiniest implication to creep into this or any other chapter of his remarkable history that might lead the reader to suspect that he did not solve them to the complete satisfaction of any one else. So, quite obviously, the point is not one to be debated. Now, as nearly every one knows, Tinkletown is a temperance place. There is no saloon there,--unless, of course, one chooses to be rather nasty about Brubaker's Drugstore. Away back in the Seventies,--soon after the Civil War, in fact,--an enterprising but misguided individual attempted to establish a bar-room at the corner of Main and Sickle Streets. He opened the Sunlight Bar and for one whole day and night revelled in the conviction that he had found a silver mine. The male population of Tinkletown, augmented by a swarm of would-be inebriates from all the farms within a radius of ten miles, flocked to the Sunlight Bar and proceeded to get gloriously and collectively drunk on the contents of the two kegs of lager beer that constituted an experimental stock in trade. The next morning the women of Tinkletown started in to put the Sunlight Bar out of business. They did not, as you may suspect, hurl stones at the place, neither did they feloniously enter and wreak destruction with axes, hatchets and hoe-handles. Not a bit of it. They were peaceful, law-abiding women, not sanguinary amazons. What they did was perfectly simple.