"Meet a woman, too?" I suggested.
"Yes; especially, yes. People can meet, as individuals or in groups, freely and frequently, in city or country. But men can not flock by themselves in special places provided for their special vices—without taking a great deal of extra trouble."
"I should think they would take the trouble, then," said I.
"But why? When there is every arrangement made for a natural good time; when you are not overworked, not underfed, not miserable and hopeless. When you can drop into a comfortable chair and have excellent food and drink in pleasant company; and hear good music, or speaking, or reading, or see pictures; or, if you like, play any kind of game; swim, ride, fly, do what you want to, for change and recreation—why long for liquor in a low place?"
"But the men—the real men, people as they were," I insisted. "You had a world full of drinking men who liked the saloon; did you—what do you call it?—eliminate them?"
"A few of them, yes," he replied gravely! "Some preferred it; others, thorough-going dipsomaniacs, we gave hospital treatment and permanent restraint; they lived and worked and were well provided for in places where there was no liquor. But there were not many of that kind. Most men drank under a constant pressure of conditions driving them to it, and the mere force of habit.
"Just remember that the weight and terror of life is lifted off us—for good and all."
"Socialism, you mean?"
"Yes, real socialism. The wealth and power of all of us belongs to all of us now. The Wolf is dead."
"Other things besides poverty drove a man to drink in my time," I ventured.