to get his pay envelope. And then when he gets it, what does he have
to do? He has to go home and wonder how the hell he's goin' to get
through the next week with nothin' but carfare to go on after his
wife has told him to come across. Now you take a convict. He hasn't
an expense in the world. Free grub, free bed, free doctor, free
clothes,--he could have free liquor if the keepers would let his
friends bring it in,--and his hours ain't any longer than any union
man's hours. He don't have to pay dues to any labor union, he don't
have to worry about strikes or strike benefits, he don't give a
whoop what Gompers or anybody else says about Gary, and he don't
care a darn whether the working man gets his beer or whether the
revenue officers get it. He--"

"Wait a second, please. Just as a matter of curiosity, Cassius, I'd
like to know what your views are on prohibition."

"Are you thinkin' of askin' me if I'll have something to drink?"
inquired Mr. Smilk craftily.

"What has that to do with it?"

"A lot," said Mr. Smilk, with decision.

"Do you approve of prohibition?"

"I do," said the rogue. "In moderation."

"Well, as soon as the police arrive I'll open a bottle of Scotch. In
the meantime go ahead with your very illuminating dissertation. I am
beginning to understand why crime is so attractive, so alluring. I