longer able to thrash her five-foot-two
husband, she still inspired fear among churchgoers of both sexes and all
ages. She frequently asserted that she could lick any man in Tinkletown
except her husband--and moreover, if any officer of the law ever
attempted to arrest Lucius for what he did to her, she'd beat his head
off--that's what she'd do.

The marshal of Tinkletown, Anderson Crow, on three separate occasions
organized a posse to go out to Power-house Gully to arrest Lucius on the
complaint of neighbours who said they couldn't stand hearing his wife's
howls any longer. On each of these occasions, the marshal got as far as
the Fry front gate, backed by eight or ten of the huskiest men in town.
There they were intercepted by Mrs. Fry, who told them that Lucius was
upstairs peaceably reloading his double-barreled shotgun, or oiling up
his trusty old horse-pistol, as the case may have been, and she didn't
believe he would like to be disturbed.

"Is he ca'am an' quiet, Stella?" Marshal Crow would ask.

"As quiet as a lamb," Mrs. Fry would reply.

"Then I guess we'd better leave him alone," the Marshal would say,
adding: "But if he ever goes on the rampage again, just you send for me,
Stella, an' I'll come as quick as I can."

And the wife of Vicious Lucius would say: "Don't forget to bring the
undertaker with you when you come, Anderson. You won't need a doctor."

At times Lucius would feel his courage slipping. At such times he would
go out to the barn and jostle old Peggy around in the stall, hoping
against hope, but without the desired result. She simply _wouldn't_ step
on his foot.

One bitter cold night just before Christmas, a group of Tinkletown's
foremost citizens sat around the big sheet-iron stove in Lamson's store.
Outside, the wind was blowing a gale; it howled and shrieked around the
corners of the building, banged forgotten window-shutters, slammed
suspended signboards with relentless fury, and afforded unlimited food
for reflection, reminiscence and prophecy. It was long past Mr. Lamson's
customary hour for closing the store, but with rare tact the loungers
permitted him to do most of the talking. It was nice and warm in the
vicinity of the stove, and there were tubs of dried apples and prunes
and a sack of hazel nuts within easy reach.

"I'll never forget the Christmas I spent out in Nebraska," Mr. Lamson
was saying. He was probably the most travelled man in town. Every time
he told a story, he