“Before I state it,” I said, “may I, since I am on the defensive, take a minute to rebut your fallacies and to present, as you and Willys have done, my more intimate personal feeling and private point of view?”
“Oh, yes,” murmured Willys, rather sleepily, “that will be very proper.”
“It will be good for you, Willys,” I said. “I shall not hurt you more than is necessary. And I shall not be half so tedious as I might be if I were not leaving town on the 2.37. Relief is in sight; my taxi will be here at one.”
“At one?” said Cornelia. “The children promised to be home by one, or earlier. Oliver, couldn’t you all—”
“Why certainly,” Oliver said. “Send away your taxi, Professor. When the Infant comes in with the car, we’ll drive you to the station, and then I’ll take Willys to his hostelry. But go ahead now, Professor, with your personal narrative of the great drouth in the Mojave Desert.”
“It’s the first forty years without water that’s hardest,” I said. “After that, one gets on nicely. Do you know that, far from being keen for this argument, the entire subject bored me terribly, till you and Willys drenched it again in—in reality. Since my student days a generation ago, I have hardly even seen liquor enough of all sorts to float an old-fashioned alumni reunion for a single evening. A resident during the latter half of my life in a bone-dry district, I, like most of my neighbors, view the annual extension of the dry lands with the aloofest academic interest.”
“Of course!” said Oliver, smiling, “of course! But you can abridge that; we all know the quality of a professor’s interest in any matter of first-rate importance.”
“It was not till bootleggers were commonly reported to be as ubiquitous as German spies in wartime,” I resumed, “and men began to attribute all the evils of the hour to prohibition, and seriously to argue that the Volstead Act was forcing drunkenness and criminality upon numberless respectable citizens who thitherto had led lives of unblemished virtue—it was not till then that I began to feel a certain curiosity about the facts, and especially about the mental condition of intelligent and responsible people resident in territory which is still subterraneously wet.”
“Their mental condition, Professor?” Oliver inquired. “Why, pray, their mental condition?”
“Because I couldn’t understand, Excellency,” I replied, “how intelligent men like you and Willys, who have lived abroad, could permit yourselves to attribute the sexually hectic flush of recent literature and life in America to the Volstead Act. All these evils, says Willys, followed prohibition, and he wags his head and mutters, ‘Vengeance of Dionysus.’ Suppose, now, I seize the same absurd post-hoc-propter-hoc principles and attribute the virginal chastity of French, Italian, and English fiction and private life to the free use of intoxicating beverages?”