“But can such things be done?” panted the boy.
“They're done all the time,” said the other. “Why, see—it stands to reason. Wouldn't folks be finding out things like this, and wouldn't they be tellin' them?”
“To be sure,” said Samuel. “That's what puzzled me.”
“Well,” said the bartender, “they ain't let to. Don't you see?”
“I see,” whispered the boy.
“There's a crowd that runs this town, Sammy; and they mean to go on runnin' it. And don't you think they can't find ways of shuttin' up a kid like you!”
“But Mr. Finnegan, it would be murder!”
“Well, they wouldn't have to do it themselves, would they? When Henry Hickman wants a chicken for dinner, he don't have to wring its neck with his own hands.”
Samuel could find nothing to reply to that. He sat dumb with horror.
“You see,” continued Finnegan after a bit, “I know about this game, and I'm givin' you a friendly word. What the hell does a kid like you want to be reformin' things for anyway?”