Promise me you won't go any more."
"I can't do that, mother. I am trying to help the men, and you ought not
ask me to stop doing what may aid others."
"Oh, my boy, my boy!" sobbed the mother.
"If you could only understand it, mother, as I have come to, you
wouldn't mind. Here, the saloon is chiefly a loafing place for the lazy
and shiftless, but in New York, it's very different. It's the poor man's
club. If you could see the dark, cold, foul-aired tenements where they
live, and then the bright, warm, cheerful saloons, that are open to all,
you would see that it isn't the drink that draws the men. I even wish
the women could come. The bulk of the men are temperate, and only take a
glass or two of beer or whisky, to pay for their welcome. They really go
for the social part, and sit and talk, or read the papers. Of course a
man gets drunk, sometimes, but usually it is not a regular customer, and
even such cases would be fewer, it we didn't tax whisky so outrageously
that the dishonest barkeepers are tempted to doctor their whisky with
drugs which drive men frantic if they drink.
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