“——is more saloons,” chuckled Ready. “Give the poor, downtrodden laborer a chance to blow in every dollar he earns.”
“The saloon is the poor man’s club,” asserted Greg.
“It’s the club with which he is beating out his own brains,” said Merriwell seriously.
Carker gasped a little, but he quickly recovered and swung off again:
“Because the poor man seeks to find a vent for his feelings by drinking occasionally in a saloon, the man of the upper class points the finger of scorn at him, crying out that the poor wretch has brought about his own misfortune. What would the poor man do if he didn’t have a chance to drink in saloons?”
“Save his money and make his family comfortable,” answered Frank promptly.
“Comfortable! comfortable!” sneered Greg. “And he would see the rich man who employed him rolling in luxury, living like a prince by the money the poor man had toiled to earn. It’s true! You all know it’s true. The laborer might be able to hold soul and body together, but none of the real pleasures of life could be his. No wonder the great masses are murmuring and groaning! Their hearts are eaten by a consuming fire that shall burst forth with all the fury of Vesuvius——”
“My goodness! it’s a volcano!” whispered Ready. “That’s hot stuff!”
“I’m not a drinker,” Carker asserted, “but I claim the right to take a drink when I like. In hot weather I do like beer, and I take it sometimes. Shall I say to the poor man: ‘This is not for you; I alone may have beer?’ The folly of it! I have sympathy with a poor man. My father was poor when he started out in life, and I am proud of it. He was a cooper.”