“Certainly not,” I replied.
The old dog thrust his head out of his kennel, to see if any one was listening, then he went on. “It’s this way. Mister goes up town or down town to some saloon—say Jones’. Says he, ‘How much do you clean up per annum, Jones?’ Jones says, ‘A thousand dollars.’ Mister asks, ‘How much will you sell for?’ Jones tells him. Mister either buys him out, or goes in as a partner. Same old business goes on, same old stand, same old boss. Coffee runs in, liquor runs out, and before Jones’ pack know where they are, naughty drinks are out, and pious ones are in—and mister makes more dough.”
“Good thought,” I exclaimed. “I suppose if he’d shut up the old place, and put up a temperance sign at first, the men would have run like deer.”
“Sure,” said the old dog, “drive folks, and they run from you; coax ’em, and they feed out of your hand.”
“Is your master going to make this saloon into a good one?” I asked curiously.
“Mebbe, in time. This gives him his title of saloon-keeper.”
“Your master must be a queer man,” I said. “I’d like to see him.”
“You never saw his match,” chuckled the old dog. “He could make money out of the cobble stones.”
“Is he rich?” I enquired.