“Well, let him,” said Wint. “What else is there for him to do?”
“Go to work.”
“He looks fit for work, doesn’t he?”
“Whose fault is that?”
“Yes,” said Wint, “whose fault is it? Whose fault that he is what he is? Whose fault that he can buy a drink in a dry town? Whose fault is it, Foster, anyway?”
Foster laughed. “Well, what’s the answer?”
Wint leaned back in his chair, eyes down, considering. He was thinking of Hetty; he could not help it. And the end of his thinking was this. He looked at Marshal Jim Radabaugh, and said evenly:
“Mister marshal, don’t arrest any more men in Hardiston for being drunk unless they—commit other crimes.” There was a bite in the last word.
But Jim Radabaugh only grinned and said: “All right, you’re boss.”
Foster started to protest. Wint asked: “Any more cases?”