off of
anybody that says Mike passed away on his premises--including Mort. So
naturally Mort denies it. He told me yesterday he would deny it even if
he had both of his legs; but what chance, says he, has a one-legged man
got with big Bill Kepsal?"

"Here comes Anderson now," said Mr. Spratt, his gaze fixed on an
approaching figure.

It was zero weather in northern New York State, and the ancient Marshal
of Tinkletown was garbed accordingly. The expansive collar of his
brass-buttoned ulster was turned up, completely obscuring the ear-flaps
and part of the coonskin cap he was wearing. An enormous pair of arctics
covered his feet; his grey and red mittens were of the homemade variety;
a muffler of the same material enveloped his gaunt neck, knotted loosely
under his chin in such a way as to leave his whiskers free not only to
the wind but to the vicissitudes of conversation as well. The emblem of
authority, a bright silver star, gleamed on the breast of his ulster.

He stopped when he reached the group huddled in front of the drugstore,
and glared accusingly at Alf Reesling.

"I thought I told you to keep off the streets," he said ominously.
"Didn't I tell you yesterday I'd run you in if I caught you drunk in the
streets again?"

"Yes, you did," replied Alf, in a justifiably bellicose manner; "but I
still stick to what I said to you at first when you said that to me."

"What was that?"

"I said you couldn't ketch me even if I was dead drunk and unconscious
in the gutter, that's what I said."

"For two cents, I'd show you," said Anderson.

"Well, go ahead. Just add two cents to what you claim I already owe you,
and go ahead with your runnin' me in. But before you do it, lemme warn
you I'll sue you for false arrest, and then where'll you be? I got five
witnesses right here that'll swear I ain't drunk now and haven't been in
twenty-three years."

"That shows just how drunk you are," said Anderson triumphantly. "Far as
I can see, there are only four men here."

"Don't you call yourself a man?"

"What say?"

"I mean I got five witnesses includin' you, that's what I mean. I'm
gettin' sick of you all the time tellin' me I been drinkin' again, when
you know I ain't touched a drop since 1896. Why, dog-gone you, Andy
Crow, if it wasn't for me an' the way you keep on talkin' about juggin'
me, you wouldn't have any excuse at all fer bein' town marshal. You--"

"That'll do now," interrupted Anderson severely. "You h