Alf read: "'The son and daughter of Mrs. Ellen Euphemia Ricketts request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their mother to Mr. Pietro Emanuel Cocotte, on June 1, 1917, at twelve o'clock noon at the family residence, No. 17 Lincoln Street, Tinkletown, New York.' Well, I'll be--" Alf interrupted himself to repeat one of the names. "Who is this Pietro Emanuel Cocotte? I never heard of--" "Petey Sickety," said Anderson. "The sprinklin'-cart driver?" "The same," said the marshal, his lips tightening. He had once tried to arrest the young man for "disturbing the peace," and had been obliged to call upon the crowd for help. "Why, good gosh, he don't earn more'n ten dollars a week and he sends half of that back to Sweden," said Alf. "Europe," corrected Anderson, patiently. He had put up with a good deal of ignorance on the part of Alf during a long and watchful acquaintanceship. "Anyhow," said the town drunkard, arising in some haste, "I guess I'll be gittin' home. Maybe I ain't too late." He was moving off with considerable celerity. "Too late for what?" called out Anderson. "That measley, good-fer-nothin' Gates boy dropped in to see my girl Queenie last night. First time he's ever done it, but, by criminy, the way they're speedin' things up around here lately there's no tellin' what c'n happen in twenty-four hours." "Hold on a minute, Alf. I'll walk along with you. Now, see here, Alf,"--Mr. Crow laid a kindly, encouraging hand on the other's shoulder as they ambled down the main street of the village--"no matter what happens, you mustn't let it git the best of you. Keep straight, old feller. Don't touch a drop o'--" Mr. Reesling stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk. "Dog-gone it, Anderson--leggo of my arm. Do you want everybody to think you're takin' me to jail, or home to my poor wife, or somethin' like that? It'll be all over town in fifteen minutes if you--" "'Tain't my fault if you've got a reputation, Alf," retorted the town marshal sorrowfully. "Well, it ain't my fault either," declared Alf. "Look at me. I ain't had a drink in twenty-three years, and what good does it do me? Every time a stranger comes to town people point at me an' say, 'There goes the town drunkard.' Oh, I've heerd 'em. I ain't deef. An' besides, ain't they always preachin' at me an' about me at the Methodist an' Congregational churches? Ain't they always tellin' the young boys that they got to be careful er they'll be like Alf Reesling? An' what's it all come from? Comes from the three times I got drunk back in the fall of 'ninety-three when my cousin was here from Albany fer a visit. I _had_ to entertain him, didn't I? An' there wasn't any other way to do it in this jerk-water town, was there? An' ever since then the windbags in this town have been prayin' fer me an' pityin' my poor wife. That's what a feller gits fer livin' in a--"