Frank's wife had gone over to Randall's to a special meeting of the
sewing society. Not only were the women going to cut out and make up
little aprons and dresses for the inmates of the nearest orphanage but
they intended to discuss several new social problems that confronted
Green Valley. The two most vital being "What do you make of that new
saloon keeper and his wife?" and "What goes on behind those poolroom
curtains, especially nights?"

Not that there was in Green Valley any interfering Civic League or any
such thing as a Pure Morals Society. Green Valley had never had to
resort to such measures. It had hitherto trusted human nature, Green
Valley sunshine and neighborliness to do whatever work of social
mending and reforming had to be done.

But something had happened to the big city to the east, some new mayor
or some new civic force had stirred things up in that huge caldron of
humanity and slopped it over so that it had begun to trickle away into
such quiet little hollows as Green Valley. It trickled so slowly and
was as yet so thin a stream that the little towns were hardly aware of
it as yet.

Green Valley was only just beginning to itch and wiggle and search and
wonder what the matter could be. It was the women, the mothers, who
scented trouble first. The men were still placidly doing the same old
Saturday afternoon tasks, mowing lawns, talking road improvements,
swapping yarns and brands of tobacco or, like Frank Burton, doing
various building jobs about their premises.

Frank and his helper were certainly enjoying themselves. When the
skeleton of that hen house was half up Frank thought it was about time