"Give it up! because I can't. To-day I would give one half of my farm if
I could pass by this saloon and not feel that I wanted to come in. No, I
feel that I am a slave. There was a time when I could have broken my
chain, but it is too late now, and I say young men take warning by me
and don't make slaves and fools of yourselves."

"Now, Tom Cary," said John Anderson, "it is time for you to dry up, we
have had enough of this foolishness, if you can't govern yourself, the
more's the pity for you."

Just then the newsboy came along crying: _"Evening Mail. All about the
dreadful murder! John Coots and James Loraine. Last edition. Buy a
paper, Sir! Here's your last edition, all 'bout the dreadful murder"._

"John Coots," said several voices all at once, "Why he's been here a
half dozen times today."

"I've drank with him," said one, "at that bar twice since noon. He had a
strange look out of his eyes; and I heard him mutter something to
himself."

"Yes," said another, "I heard him say he was going to kill somebody,
'one or the other's got to die,' what does the paper say?"

"LOVE, JEALOUSY, AND MURDER."

"The old story," said Anderson, looking somewhat relieved, "A woman's at
the bottom of it."

"And liquor," said Tom Cary, "is at the top of it."