"And here's the nature of Aunt Charette's institution." He pointed to an
open cupboard in which there were many bottles.

"Oh! your local liquor agency," hazarded the chairman.

"No, sir! Aunt Charette's own dispensary for the ills of the mind and
fatigues of the body, and run according to my own notions. It beats your
bar and white jackets, Luke, or that solemn farce of cheap liquors and
robber prices of the State agency system. You come in here, if you are
not a drunkard or a minor or a pauper--and Aunt Charette knows 'em
all--and you go to the cupboard and get your drink, or you go out there
in the store-room and get your bottle, and hand the change to Aunt
Charette and walk away. No other rumshop tolerated in the section, and
pocket peddlers run out of town on a rail! No treating, no foolishness,
no fraud. Pays her fine twice a year without going to court, the same as
you. And no extras!" He smiled at the chairman significantly.

"No extras, eh!" mused Mr. Presson, enviously. "You must have a
different crowd of county officers than we've got down our way."

"Perhaps so," admitted the old man, and then he allowed himself a bit of
a boast; "but the secret is, you see, this little institution is
something I've taken under my own wing."

It was an ill-starred moment for that honest boast. There came a
thumping of feet in the hall. The man who burst in was flushed and
sweating and excited.

"I'm glad you're here, Squire," he panted. "You're just in the nick o'
time. They're going to jump on the old lady."