Yes, rightfully theirs. And anyone disposed to be critical of police morality—or of Freddie Palmer morality—in this matter of graft would do well to pause and consider the source of his own income before he waxes too eloquent and too virtuous. Graft is one of those general words that mean everything and nothing. What is graft and what is honest income? Just where shall we draw the line between rightful exploitation of our fellow-beings through their necessities and their ignorance of their helplessness, and wrongful exploitation? Do attempts to draw that line resolve down to making virtuous whatever I may appropriate and vicious whatever is appropriated in ways other than mine? And if so are not the police and the Palmers entitled to their day in the moral court no less than the tariff-baron and market-cornerer, the herder and driver of wage slaves, the retail artists in cold storage filth, short weight and shoddy goods? However, "we must draw the line somewhere" or there will be no such thing as morality under our social system. So why not draw it at anything the other fellow does to make money. In adopting this simple rule, we not only preserve the moralities from destruction but also establish our own virtue and the other fellow's villainy. Truly, never is the human race so delightfully, so unconsciously, amusing as when it discusses right and wrong.
When she saw Freddie again, he was far from sober. He showed it by his way of beginning. Said he:
"I've got to hand you a line of rough talk, Queenie. I took on this jag for your especial benefit," said he. "I'm a fool about you and you take advantage of it. That's bad for both of us. . . . You're drinking as much as ever?"
"More," replied she. "It takes more and more."
"How can you expect to get on?" cried he, exasperated.
"As I told you, I couldn't make a cent if I didn't drink."
Freddie stared moodily at her, then at the floor—they were in her room. Finally he said:
"You get the best class of men. I put my swell friends on to where you go slipping by, up and down in the shadow—and it's all they can do to find you. The best class of men—men all the swell respectable girls in town are crazy to hook up with—those of 'em that ain't married already. If you're good enough for those chaps they ought to be good enough for you. Yet some of 'em complain to me that they get thrown down—and others kick because you were too full—and, damn it, you act so queer that you scare 'em away. What am I to do about it?"
She was silent.
"I want you to promise me you'll take a brace."