“Dreadful, isn’t it?” said Mr. Narrowpath. “The sunken, depraved condition of your City of Montreal; actually selling whisky. Deplorable!” and with that he buried his face in the bubbles of the whisky and soda.
“Mr. Narrowpath,” I said, “would you mind telling me something? I fear I am a little confused, after what I have seen here, as to what your new legislation has been. You have not then, I understand, prohibited the making of whisky?”
“Oh, no, we see no harm in that.”
“Nor the sale of it?”
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Narrowpath, “not if sold properly.”
“Nor the drinking of it?”
“Oh, no, that least of all. We attach no harm whatever, under our law, to the mere drinking of whisky.”
“Would you tell me then,” I asked, “since you have not forbidden the making, nor the selling, nor the buying, nor the drinking of whisky, just what it is that you have prohibited? What is the difference between Montreal and Toronto?”
Mr. Narrowpath put down his glass on the “desk” in front of him. He gazed at me with open-mouthed astonishment.
“Toronto?” he gasped. “Montreal and Toronto! The difference between Montreal and Toronto! My dear sir—Toronto—Toronto—”