“Come along,” said my companion, whom I now perceived to be a person of dignity and civic importance. “I’ll walk up with you, and show you the city as we go.”
We had hardly got well upon the street before I realized the enormous change that total prohibition had effected. Everywhere were the bright smiling faces of working people, laughing and singing at their tasks, and, early though it was, cracking jokes and asking one another riddles as they worked.
I noticed one man, evidently a city employe, in a rough white suit, busily cleaning the street with a broom and singing to himself: “How does the little busy bee improve the shining hour.” Another employe, who was handling a little hose, was singing, “Little drops of water, little grains of sand, Tra, la, la, la, la la, Prohibition’s grand.”
“Why do they sing?” I asked. “Are they crazy?”
“Sing?” said Mr Narrowpath. “They can’t help it. They haven’t had a drink of whisky for four months.”
A coal cart went by with a driver, no longer grimy and smudged, but neatly dressed with a high white collar and a white silk tie.
My companion pointed at him as he passed.
“Hasn’t had a glass of beer for four months,” he said.
“Notice the difference. That man’s work is now a pleasure to him. He used to spend all his evenings sitting round in the back parlours of the saloons beside the stove. Now what do you think he does?”
“I have no idea.”