arry first looked over his shoulder and then winked. "Not that I know
of," he said, chuckling. "But I guess it's safe to go ahead and print
the ticket with Mrs. Crow's name on it."

Never in all its sedentary existence had Tinkletown experienced a
livelier campaign.

"If you vote for Minnie Stitzenberg, I'll never speak to you again," was
the common argument of the Crowites, and "Don't you ever try to look me
in the face again if you vote for that old Mrs. Crow," was the slogan of
the opposition.

Mrs. Crow conducted her own campaign.

Anderson discovered to his great dismay that his meals were not only
irregular in the matter of time, but frequently did not materialize at
all. His wife and daughters neglected him completely. On three separate
occasions after waiting until nearly eight o'clock for his supper, he
strolled disconsolately over to the equally abandoned home of Alf
Reesling.

"I'm a mighty poor cook," confessed Alf on the first occasion, a hungry,
harassed look in his eyes. "But anything's better'n starvin', ain't it?"

"It shore is," said Anderson with feeling.

"I ain't seen a petticoat around my house since half-past nine this
mornin'," lamented Alf, upsetting a pan of milk while trying to get a
plate of cold ham out of the icebox. "It's terrible."

"Lemme take your knife, Alf. I'll peel the pertatoes--if you'll tell me
where they are."

"I don't know where anything is," said Alf, leaning dejectedly against
the kitchen sink.

"Well," said Anderson, "let's look."

"If the election was a week further off, I'd give up an' go to drinkin'
again," said Alf on another occasion. "I'd sooner drink myself to death
than starve. Starvation is a terrible end, Anderson. Worse than hangin',
they say."

"Only four days more," sighed Anderson, clipping off a hunk of bologna.
"My wife says if I'll hold out till after election, she won't never
leave the kitchen ag'in long as she lives."

"That's what mine says. Sherman was only half right. War may be hell for
men, but, by gosh, women are hell for war. An' that's what it is--war,
Anderson, war to the hilt. Every woman in town's got her knife out an',
my God, how they're slashin' each other! There won't be a whole woman
left."

"Well, I'd be satisfied with half a one," mused Anderson, a faraway look
in his eyes.

The day before the election, Mrs. Crow played her trump card. She had
treasured an open boast made years before by the disappointed old maid
who