ne that she can be proud
of?"

"She has a thoroughbred setter," said Marshal Crow, compressing his
lips.

"A hundred dollars is a lot of money fer a dog," murmured Mr. Fryback.
He met his wife's eye for a second and then added: "But, of course, my
wife has just lost one that was worth a thousand dollars, so--I guess it
ain't so much, after all."

"Marmaduke was a really wonderful dog, Mrs. Fox," vouchsafed Mort's
wife, assuming a sad and pensive expression.

"I am sure he must have been," said Mrs. Fox.

"One hundred dollars is very cheap, sir, for a thoroughbred Boston
terrier in these days," said Mr. Fox. "Isn't that so, Mr. Crow?"

"Cheap as dirt," said Anderson.

"Mortimer, will you please give Mr. Fox the money?" said Mrs. Fryback.
"And, by the way, Mr. Crow, I hope you take down all those reward
notices at once. I wouldn't know what to do with Marmaduke now, even if
some one did bring him back to me."

"I know what I'd order you to do with him," said Anderson, meeting
Mort's melancholy gaze at last.

"What, may I inquire?"

"I'd order you to bury him," said the town marshal, speaking in his
capacity as chairman of the Board of Health.

Mrs. Fryback looked at him steadily for a second or two, and then slowly
closed an eye.

SHADES OF THE GARDEN OF EDEN!

It wasn't often that Marshal Crow acknowledged that he was in a
quandary. When he _did_ find himself in that rare state of mind, he
invariably went to Harry Squires, the editor of the _Banner_, for
counsel--but never for advice. He had in the course of a protracted
career as preserver of the peace and dignity of Tinkletown, found
himself confronted by seemingly unsolvable mysteries, but he always had
succeeded in unravelling them, one way or another, to his own complete
satisfaction. Only the grossest impudence on the part of the present
chronicler would permit the tiniest implication to creep into this or
any other chapter of his remarkable history that might lead the reader
to suspect that he did not solve them to the complete satisfaction of
any one else. So, quite obviously, the point is not one to be debated.

Now, as nearly every one knows, Tinkletown is a temperance place. There
is no saloon there,--unless, of course, one chooses to be rather nasty
about Brubaker's Drugstore. Away back in the Seventies,--soon after the
Civil War, in fact,--an enterprising but misguided individual attempted
to establish a bar-room at the corner of M