The tavern-keeper did not tell all that was in his mind. He said nothing of his dream, nor of that horrible idea of going to the rum-seller's hell, and becoming a devil, filled with the delight of rendering mankind wretched by deluging the land with drunkenness.
"What are you going to do then?" asked Sandy.
"Why, the first thing is to quit rum-selling."
"But what then?"
"I'm not decided yet;—but shall enter into some kind of business that I can follow with a clear conscience."
"You'll sell out this stands I suppose. The goodwill is worth three or four hundred dollars."
"No, Sandy, I will not!" was the tavern-keeper's positive, half indignant reply. "I'll have nothing more to do with the gain of rum-selling. I have too much of that sin on my conscience already."
"Somebody will come right in, as soon as you move out. And I don't see why you should give any one such an advantage for nothing."
"I'm not going to move out, Sandy."
"Then what are you going to do?"