"See here, Lucy, you been drinkin'. You're full as a goat. You gimme that--" "An'erson Crow, are you tryin' inshult me?" she demanded, drawing herself up. "Wha' you mean sayin' I'm dunk,--drump? You know I never touched dropper anything. I'm the bes' frien' your wife's got innis town an' she--who's 'at lookin' out zat winner? Zat my hussam?" Before the marshal could interfere, she blazed away at one of the windows in the _Banner_ office. There was a crash of glass. She was now empty-handed but the startled guardian of the peace was slow to realize it. He was still trying to convince himself that it was the gentle, long-suffering Mrs. Rank who stood before him. Suddenly, to his intense dismay, she threw her arms around his neck and began to weep--and wail. "I--I--love my hussam,--I love my hussam,--an' I didden mean cuttiz 'ead off--I didden--I didden, An'erson. My hussam's dead. My hussam's head's all off,--an' I love my hussam--I love my hussam." The door flew open and Harry Squires strode forth. "What the devil does this mean--My God! Mrs. Rank! Wha--what's the matter with her, Anderson?" The marshal gazed past him into the office. His eyes were charged with apprehension. "Where--where's the deacon's head?" he gulped. The editor did not hear him. He had eyes and ears only for the mumbling creature who dangled limply from the marshal's neck; her face was hidden but her hat was very much in evidence. It was bobbing up and down on the back of her head. "Let's get her into the office," he exclaimed. "This is dreadful, Anderson,--shocking!" A moment later the door closed behind the trio,--and a key was turned in the lock. This was the signal for a general advance of all observers. Headed by Mr. Hawkins, the undertaker, they swarmed up the steps and crowded about the windows. The thoughtful Mr. Squires, however, conducted Mrs. Rank to the composing-room and the crowd was cheated. Bill Smith, the printer, looked up from his case and pied half of the leading editorial. He proved to be a printer of the old school. After a soft, envious whistle he remarked: "My God, I'd give a month's pay for one like that," and any one who has ever come in contact with an old-time printer will know precisely what he meant. "Oh, my poor b'loved hussam," murmured Mrs. Rank. "My poor b'loved hussam whass I have endured f'r twenty-fi' years wiz aller Chrissen forcitude of--where is my poor hussam?" She swept the floor with a hazy, uncertain look. Not observing anything that looked like a head, she turned a bleary, accusing eye upon Bill Smith, the printer, and there is no telling what she might have said to him if Harry Squires had not intervened. "Sit down here, Mrs. Rank,--do. Your husband is all right. He was here a few minutes ago, and--which way did he go, Bill?" "Out," said Bill laconically, jerking his head in the direction of an open window at the rear. "Didden--didden I cuttiz 'ead off?" demanded Mrs. Rank.