She approached airily. Her forlorn little person was erect, even soldierly. Indeed, if anything, she was a shade too erect at times. At such times she appeared to be in some danger of completely forgetting her equilibrium. She stepped high, as the saying is, and without her usual precision. In a word, the meek and retiring wife of Deacon Rank was hilariously drunk!
Pedestrians, far and near, stopped stockstill in their tracks to gaze open-mouthed at the jaunty drudge; storekeepers peered wide-eyed and incredulous from windows and doors. If you suddenly had asked any one of them when the world was coming to an end, he would have replied without the slightest hesitation.
She bore down upon the petrified Mr. Crow.
"Is zat you, An'erson?" she inquired, coming to an uncertain stop at the foot of the steps. Where—oh, where! was the subdued, timorous voice of Sister Rank? Whose—oh, whose! were the shrill and fearless tones that issued forth from the lips of the deacon's wife?
"For the Lord's sake, Lucy,—wha—what ails you?" gasped the horrified marshal.
"Nothing ails me, An'erson. Nev' fel' better'n all my lipe—life. Where's my hush—hushban'?"
She brandished her right hand, and clutched in her fingers an implement that caused Anderson's eyes to almost start from his head.
"What's that you got in your hand?" he cried out.
"Thish? Thass a hashet. Don't you know whass a hashet is?"
"I—I know it's a hatchet. Lucy,—but, fer heaven's sake, what are you goin' to do with it?"