But in spite of Uncle Dad's sage conclusions, it was this very prohibition question that was disturbing Anderson Crow. He sauntered into the _Banner_ office late one afternoon in May and planked himself down in a chair beside the editor's desk. There was a troubled look in his eyes, which gave way to vexation after he had made three or four fruitless efforts to divert the writer's attention from the sheet of "copy paper" on which he was scribbling furiously. "How do you spell beverage, Anderson?" inquired Mr. Squires abruptly. "What kind of beverage?" demanded Mr. Crow. "Any kind, just so it's intoxicating. Never mind, I'll take a chance and spell it the easiest way. That's the way the dictionary spells it, so I guess it's all right. Well, sir, what's on your mind?--besides your hat, I mean. You look worried." "I am worried. Have you any idee as to the size of the apple crop in this neighbourhood last summer and fall, Harry?" "Not the least." "Well, sir, it was the biggest we've had since 1902, 'specially the fall pickin." "What's the idea? Do you want me to put something in the _Banner_ about Bramble County's bumper crop of pippins?" "No. I just want to ask you if there's anything in this new prohibition amendment against apple cider?" "Not that I'm aware of." "Well, do you know it's impossible to buy a good eatin' or cookin' apple in this town today, Harry Squires?" "You don't say so! In spite of the big crop last fall?" "You could buy all you wanted last week, by the bushel or peck or barrel,--finest, juiciest apples you ever laid your eyes on." "Well, I don't like apples anyway, so it doesn't mean much in my life." Anderson was silent for a moment or two, contemplating his foot with singular intentness. "Was you ever drunk on hard cider?" he inquired at last,--transferring his gaze to the rapidly moving hand that held the pencil. The reporter jabbed a period,--or "full stop," as they call it in a certain form of literature,--in the middle of a sentence, and looked up with sudden interest. "Yes," he said, with considerable force. "I'll never forget it. You can get tighter on hard cider than anything else I know of." "Well, there you are," exclaimed the Marshal, banging his gnarled fist on the arm of the chair. "And as far as I c'n make out, there ain't no law ag'inst cider stayin' in the barrel long enough to get good and hard, an' what's more, there ain't no law ag'ainst sellin' cider, hard or sweet, is there?" "I get your point, Anderson. And I also get your deductions concerning the mysterious disappearance of all the apples in Tinkletown. Apparently we are to have a shortage of dried apples this year, with an overflow of hard cider instead. By George, it's interesting, to say the least. Looks as though an apple orchard is likely to prove more valuable than a gold mine, doesn't it?"