“Mr. Finnegan,” said the boy, “I wish you wouldn't make fun of me. For I'm talking to you out of the bottom of my heart.”
And Samuel gazed with so much yearning in his eyes that the man was touched, in spite of the absurdity of it. “Go on,” he said. “I'll listen.”
“It's just this,” said Samuel. “It's wrong to sell liquor! Think what drink does to men? I saw a man drunk the other night and it led to what was almost murder. Drink makes men cruel and selfish. It takes away their self-control. It makes them unfit for their work. It leads to vice and wickedness. It enslaves them and degrades them. Don't you know that is true, Mr. Finnegan?”
“Yes,” admitted Finnegan, “I reckon it is. I never touch the stuff myself.”
“And still you sell it to others?”
“Well, my boy, I don't do it because I hate them.”
“But then, why DO you do it?”
“I do it,” said Finnegan, “because I have to live. It's my trade—it's all I know.”
“It seems such a terrible trade!” exclaimed the boy.
“Maybe,” said the other. “But take notice, it ain't a princely one. I'm on the job all day and a good part of the night, and standing up all the time. And I don't get no holidays either—and I only get twelve a week. And I've a wife and a new baby. So what's a man to do?”