It was through these two luckless individuals that we proposed to strike a blow at the common enemy.

To kill less than three birds with one stone did not suit our sanguinary purpose.

We disliked the widow not so much for her sentimentality as for being the mother of Bill Conway; we disliked Mr.
Meeks, not because he was insipid, like his own syrups, but because the widow loved him.

Bill Conway we hated for himself.
Late one dark Saturday night in September we carried our plan into effect.

On the following morning, as the orderly citizens wended their way to church past the widow's abode, their sober faces relaxed at beholding over her front door the well known gilt Mortar and Pestle which usually stood on the top of a pole on the opposite corner; while the passers on that side of the street were equally amused and scandalized at seeing a placard bearing the following announcement tacked to the druggist's window-shutters: Wanted, a Sempstress! The naughty cleverness of the joke (which I should be sorry to defend) was recognized at once.