"Mr. Marshal," cut in the larger man brusquely, "we came to see you in regard to a matter of great importance--and, I may add, privacy. Having heard of your reputation for cleverness and infallibility--" "As everybody in the land has heard," put in the other. "--we desire your co-operation in an undertaking of considerable magnitude. Quite frankly, I do not see how we can succeed without your valuable assistance. You--" "Hold on! If you're tryin' to get me to subscribe to a set of books, so's my name at the head of the list will drag other suckers into--" "Not at all, sir--not at all. We are not book-agents, Mr. Marshal." "Well, what are ye?" "Metallurgists," said the florid one. "I see, I see," said Anderson, who didn't see at all. "You started off just like a book-agent, er a lightnin'-rod salesman." "My name is Bacon,--George Washington Bacon,--and my friend bears an even nobler monicker, if that be possible. He is Abraham Lincoln Bonaparte--a direct descendant of both of those illustrious gentlemen." "You don't say! I didn't know Lincoln was any connection of Bonaparte's." "It isn't generally known," the descendant informed him, with becoming modesty. "Well, I'm seventy-three years old an' I never heard--" "Seventy-three!" gasped Mr. Bonaparte, incredulously. "I don't believe it. You can't be more than fifty, Mr. Crow." "Do you suppose I fought in the Union Army before I was born?" demanded Mr. Crow. "Where'd I get this G. A. R. badge, lemme ast you? An' you don't think the citizens of this here town would elect a ten-year-old boy to the responsible position of town marshal, do you? Why, gosh snap it, I been Marshal o' Tinkletown fer forty years--skippin' two years back in the nineties when I retired in favour of Ed Higgins, owin' to a misunderstandin' concernin' my health--an'--" "It is incredible, sir. You are the youngest-looking man for your years I've ever seen. But we are digressing. Proceed, Mr. Bacon. Pardon the interruption." Marshal Crow had drawn himself up to his full height,--a good six feet,--and, expanding under the influence of a just pride, his chest came perilously near to dislodging a couple of brass buttons. His keen little grey eyes snapped brightly in their deep sockets; his sparse chin whiskers, responding to the occasion, bristled noticeably. Employing his thumb and forefinger, he first gave his beard a short caress, after which he drew it safely out of line and expectorated thinly between his teeth with such astounding accuracy that both of the strangers stared. His objective was a narrow slit in the tree-box across the sidewalk. "I couldn't do that in a thousand years," said Mr. Bacon, deeply impressed. "You could do it in half that time if you lived in Tinkletown," was Anderson's cryptic return. "You ought to see Ed Higgins. He's our champeen. His specialty is knot-holes. Ed c'n hit--" "Are you interested in metallurgy, Mr. Crow?" broke in Mr. Bacon, a little rudely.