station and inquired about
Milwaukee-bound trains.

"There's one due at noon," the agent told him. "Stops on signal. You
want me to stop it?"

"That's kind of early," Doak said. "When's the next?"

"At six tonight. A local. Doesn't need a signal."

That would be soon enough. Doak left and walked slowly up the main
street of Dubbinville. He was walking past the bank when the beard
caught his gaze.

* * * * *

It was the Burns quoter of last night. He was sitting behind the
biggest desk in the open portion of the bank, and there was a sign on
his desk.

The sign read, _Malcolm S. Sutherland--President_.

Lordy, Lordy, Lordy--the president of the bank! That showed the strata
this subversion was reaching. Didn't the man realize what a risk he
was taking?

In the drugstore he saw another of the faces he had seen last night.
It was the man who had administered the hypodermic. He was talking to
the druggist. Doak turned and went in.

"All right, Doctor," the druggist said. "I'll have it about one
o'clock. Will that be all right?"

"Fine," the doctor said. He went out.

Doak bought a package of cigarettes. "Was that Doctor Ryan by any
chance?"

"No. Doctor Helgeson. I don't recall a Doctor Ryan. Doctor Helgeson's
the only medical doctor in town."

"This Ryan's a Ph.D." Doak said. "Senator Arnold told me about him.
Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Beautiful," the druggist agreed.

Walking back to the house Doak wondered if this couldn't be handled
without punitive measures being taken. The only doctor in town and the
president of the bank--and they were probably only a small part of the
picture. It could disrupt this town if Senator Arnold had his way.

And what was their crime? Reading. A law as stupid as the ancient
prohibition law had been, pushed through a bewildered Congress under
much the same conditions. Supported by a strange blend of the divine
and ridiculous, the naive and the clever, the gullible and the
knowing.

Well, was it his business? _He_ didn't make the laws--he only helped
to enforce them. It was a logical answer and why didn't it satisfy
him?

He had a job, a good job at the public trough in a woman-heavy city, a
security that was as solid as his country. Why should he fret over a
gang of law-breakers? Unless it was that cow-town cutie, that Martha.
Unless he was so dame-happy he'd sell out the Department. That corrupt
he certainly wasn't--at least, not y