Accordingly, he swore out a search warrant and with the Sheriff proceeded to the “humble” abode of William Doherty, near the gravel bank, and, sure enough, there he beheld his wealth stored in sundry pails and jugs.

The sheriff immediately gobbled the coveted lucre and laboriously lugged it to town and deposited it in the second story of Warren Wallace’s drug and grocery store, in the rear of J. B. Waller’s justice office, ready to confront William on his appearance before his honor to show cause why he shouldn’t eat pancakes without saccurine fluid.

“Bill,” meantime, got three dollars for his vote, and skipped for Troy, and the sweet product of the Spafford sorghum lies in the upstairs storeroom that belongs to Warren Wallace.

Mr. Wallace, ignorant of the fact that his store room has been the receptacle of contraband sweetening, hurriedly ran upstairs to get a bundle of brooms for a customer, and stepped “slap” into a pail of incipient muscovado. The usually mild temper of the dispenser of drugs and medicine was slightly ruffled by the sticky stuff, and he instituted a search high and low for the offender. When he found “how it was himself,” he was madder yet, and threatened to kick the dirty product into the lake. “Served ‘em” right.