Over in one corner of the room Green Valley's three good little men were discussing something hotly. That is, the fiery little barber was discussing something. The other two just listened.
"I tell you that preacher boy is right. This town needs a home, a place where it can all get together for a good time. No one home, not even this one, is big enough. That's why part of the town hangs out in the hotel, another part in the blacksmith shop, the kids in Joe's shoe shop or a poolroom. We need a big assembly room with smaller rooms off of it for all kinds of honest fun—pool, billiards, bowling, dancing, swimming. I tell you I ain't crazy and no more is the preacher. And Joshua Stillman's library that he pretty near gave all his life and money to needs to be moved out into the sunlight and stretched to its full, grand size. I tell you it would be a great thing for this town. This town's sociable but it ain't social—no, sir!"
Sam Ellis was going home from the party with his girl and two boys.
"Well, father," bitterly spoke up the eldest, "it's still our saloon that's killing Jim Tumley, even though we aren't running it."
"Oh, father," murmured Tessie miserably, "can't you do anything about it?"
Sam groaned.
"Dear God—what can I do? I tell you selling the hotel or renting it or dynamiting it won't stop drinking in this town, so long as there are men in it who want drink and will drink. I don't think even the vote that that little girl suggested will do it. If you vote it out you'll have blind pigs to fight. No, sir! It ain't my fault nor no one man's fault. The whole town's to blame. There's only one thing will stop it. If men in this country will quit making it other men will stop drinking it. So long as it's made it'll be used. The whole country's to blame."
Fanny Foster, having nobody else to talk to, was speaking her mind to John, her husband.
"I told Grandma Wentworth nobody but the Almighty could do anything for Jim. You'll see that I'm right. I know."
Fanny was right. But what she did not know was that she herself was to be one of the instruments with which a stern and patient God was to clean out forever the one foul blot on Green Valley life.