Marshall Crow, of Tinkletown, was elected to office not long after the close of the Civil War. On a number of occasions since then he has been on the point of retiring, only to find himself re-elected without opposition or even consent. Now at the ripe age of seventy-five, he is still the principal man of the village. Tinkletown laughs at him, but will always honor and respect him.
t ventured down from the main line some miles away and terminated at Smock's, loomed up like lofty gibbets in the ghastly light. Three quarters of a mile from the scene of the conflagration lay the homes of the people who lived on the rim of Tinkletown, and there also were the two churches and the motion-picture houses.
"We got to save them picture-houses," panted Anderson, and then in hasty apology,--"and the churches, too."
"You got to save my studio first," bawled Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer, trying to keep pace with him in the congested line.
"Halt!" commanded the chief, not because tactics called for such an action but because he was beginning to feel that he couldn't keep up with the engine.
The cavalcade eased down to a walk and finally came to a halt. Every eye was riveted on the burning structure which now stood out alone in all its grandeur beyond the quarries and gravel-pits. Every one waited in breathless suspense for the collapse of the towering walls.
A comedy of dumb or idiotic inhabitants of a sleepy small town in the idyllic year of 1919. The first two chapters are amusing, but all the rest is a soporific matter.
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