John Barleycorn is fighting for his life. He has few real friends, indeed, among his consumers. No man knows better the danger of alcohol than the man who is addicted to its use—until he gets to that besotted stage where his brain is so befuddled that his opinion would scarcely be taken in a court of law on any subject.
Janice Day was determined not to listen to these temporizers in Polktown who professed themselves satisfied if the license was taken away from the Lake View Inn. Something more drastic was needed than that.
"The business must be voted out of town. We all must take a stand upon the question—on one side or the other," the girl had said earnestly, in discussing this point with Elder Concannon.
"If you only shut up this bar, another license, located at some other point, will be asked for. Each time the fight will have to be begun again. Vote the town dry—that is the only way."
"Well, I reckon that's true enough, my girl," said the cautious elder.
"But I doubt if we can do it. They're too strong for us."
"We can try," Janice urged. "You don't know that the wets will win,
Elder."
"And if we try the question in town meeting and get beaten, we'll be worse off than we are now."
"Why shall we?" Janice demanded. "And, besides, I do not believe the wets can carry the day."
"I'm afraid the idea of making the town dry isn't popular enough," pursued the elder.
"Why not?"