That was the beginning. The men did not detonate on pay day, except in lively conversation. There was less diffused blasphemy. It concentrated rather particularly on one or two eminent men. And when the virtues and defects of these men were sufficiently canvassed, the “system” beyond them was analyzed. Even the delight of the Hunkies in dirt, or the meanness of certain bosses, began to be less engrossing than the exact place in the terrestrial economy where Harrod and Prentiss got off.
“Well, Robert,” inquired the man of migraine, back in the home office, “how is your precious prohibition working? It seems to me the doctor’s wife is the sole beneficiary so far.”
“Working?” the rubicund Harrod responded urgently. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about it. You can’t rely on the men for anything. A few years ago, after all, they took their wages over to Mason and blew it all in, or they soaked up enough rum in Hopeville to satisfy themselves, and come back on the job. Now, what do they do? They quit for two weeks when they want to. They quit for a month at a time. And still they have a balance. You can’t deal with such men. They’re infernally independent. They’re impudent with prosperity. I never saw anything like it. We can’t stand it. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“You’re going to back the liquor trade, Robert, of course. That’s simple enough.”
“You may laugh, but it is too late, I tell you, the harm’s done. We can’t remedy it. National prohibition is right on top of us. I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“Sell ’em Bevo. That’ll keep them conservative. Ever drink it?”
“Bevo? Conservative? Prentiss, this is serious. These men are completely out of hand.”
“Well, aren’t they more efficient?”
“Of course they’re more efficient. They’re too damnably efficient. They wanted Hopeville drained and they’re getting it drained. They’ll insist on having it paved next. They’ll want hot and cold water. They’ll want bathtubs. That’ll be the end.”
“The end? Come, Robert, perhaps only the beginning of the end.”