MY SALOON.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 11282, 9 January 1915, Page 5

MY SALOON.

I" Ladies' Home Journal.") One afternoon as I came around the comer from the trolley into our street I saw something that made me thiniv. Young Van Dvke Browne, son of tho new reform Mayor of liiveryort. was standing at our gate with Kate—my Kate. I caught my breath tor nn instant. One of us had slipped through the liars in Emerson Street. About that time Emerson Street l>egati to get on mv nerves./ in. aH nvy hfo I had not known the real meaning of tho word worry. Yet here was I waking at all hours of the night and thinking of the folks about me. , I began to drink. I did not drink much, "but 1 found that a single nun drink in the morning Was a real bracer. And I flattered myself that t could become a moderate drinker, and rematn a moderate drinker. I knew the. stuff --it was my stock-in-trade—-and I knew where- to quit. Then came little Max's illness. He fell ill of a, great fever. For ten weeks he lay abed, fighting death. Emerson Street might have shown then that it at least had red blood. But Emerson Street, with but a few feeblo exceptions here and there, did not know that one of its houses was fighting death—evidently didn't care. Then a single drink iii the morning was not enough. I hegpn taking two or three. Then I took four or live. _ . Just about this time John William Sohmitt came in from New York, ne found me alone in the place—taking a " bracer." "Don't like to see you that, Max," he said gravely. "It isn't professional." I knew what he meant. The bettor sort of barkeepers never drink. That seems to be an almost, universal rule, in large towns and small ones; I felt as if I owed "Schmitty" an apology for having broken the ryle. I tokt him about little Max. But when he was done expressing his sorrow he said: " All the same, old man, cut out those bracers. Bornstoin let go of a good mart in Albany last week —because lie drank. Had some good excuses too. But excuses don't go with tho boss. He is after results. Cut it out, Max. Leave that for others."

I understood. And quit I did. That night when I went home the boy was better and I told Mamie all about my talk with " Schmitty." I wanted her to see to it that T kept my promise to TWustein's collector. When I was done she spoke—in her gentle way: "I have Jiad sleepless nights myself, Max, worrying about our neighbours. And I have prayed God more in tJhe last six months than in all th rest of rav life."

"Yes. Mamie?'' T urged. " I have never had a bracer," she said.

I onuglit her in my arms. Tt is not so hard to quit drinking with such an aid at your elbow. Yet a little later, when in another crisis in Max's illness she came to me. her fnce tear-stained, her lips bearing an appeal that I promise God to quit the saloon business if Ho saved our boy. I told her: "No." Tt seemed brutal—doubly brutal just then. But, although I have never had much religious training, T did not believe tha v a man can make contracts with God. And I still believed that mine was a reputable business.

Sometimes that belief was shakenI remember picking up the " Riverport Democrat," one evening a little time after our hoy was on the road to renovery, and reading a piece about Pearson, who used to have a saloon down near the lower bridpje, and who had been sent to the penitentiary for forgery. The editor felt called upon to say something about the connection in Pearson's case between the business of rum-selling and a cell in the penitentiary. I felt pretty hot the first time I read the piece. Then I began counting over the men who were in the saloon business in Riverport when T had gone into it, and thinking what had become of them. Gorhardt had died—a pauper and a. drunkard. Fred Knowlworth, his partner, was in the county almshouse. Three others of the old-time saloonkeepers had died poor. Euglehardt's prosperity in his old age was a single exception. And then there was Frank Hyatt—Frank Hyatt, who had been proprietor of the Miller House when I went to work there. Frank Hyatt was an elegant fellow. They did not hesitate at electing him to the Riverport Club. Frank Hyatt had gone from the Miller House to run a. big hotel at Buffalo. But in six years Frank Hyatt had either drunk or gambled his hotel away. The last I had heard was that he had been thrown out of a job as porter in a cheap hotel over in New York City. It was not a pleasant record. When our boy came back from Asheville it was a different sort of boy from the one we had sent. Instead of the puny child Max there had come a tall, fair-haired, good-looking I\lax who gave promise of the man. I almost was sorry that he was good-looking. Tt seemed like a weakness to me- Tt would put him into temptations and false positions when he came to know women—and T was not quite sure how Max would meet those temptations and false positions. He had not been home twenty-four hours before I knew that the woman question had already come into his mind. Tt seemed that down at A'sheville he met a family from St Louis, and there was a young girl in that family. He told me all about it, then suddenly turned his conversation.

"Pop," said he, "do you think that you will ever get into any different business ?" T could not answer him for _ the moment. Then T told him I didn't think so.

" I'm sorry.'' said my boy. " Sorry?" "Yos.'very sorry, Pop." he said to me, looking pained. Then he explained, it seemed that when the girl he met at Asheville learned of mv business it was all over for Max. My boy is all to me. T was proud of him." 1 did not want him ever 1" bs ashamed of his father or his father's bn.si.nt'ss. The business had clothed him. had educated him. had paid the expenses of his long illness, and had sent him to Asheville afterward. It was good enough to pay his bills and vet Young Yaii Dyke Browne had been showing some little attention to our Kate. I admired hi* taste. Our daughter had grown into a handsome woman, with her mother's dark hair and black even. T noticed that more than one fellow seemed glad to receive her favour. At one time there was Harry Gerkins—-as handsome and as popular a fellow as ono might wish to find. I think, that our Kate was not blind to him. But youi)£ Gerkins

was t<)o good a patron of my business. 1 liked to have, the boys come, to see Kate. .Hut I made one. hard-and-fast rule about them: No young man in Hivorport could hang around my saloon and my house too.

Van Dyke Browne did not como to my saloon and so ho was welcome to my house. I think that he, saw more of Kate than all tho rest of the young follows. And in return I think tout she was very fond of him. The Brownes were not among, tb' very groat ;;wells of our town. They wore not rich Hut they ha.d lived on Emerson Street since it bad ceased to bo a cow lane, and there was not a house on its entire length that would not gladly open its doors to them. They had a social jwisitiou which 1 had found, long since, neither Mamie nor I might hope to attain, yet here was n real romance mounting up opweou the.ir boy and our gii'l our little girl just grown to womanhood. There came an evening when Kate arid I were alone at tho supper (able. " Daddy.'' she told me, in the abrupt way that bad come to her. along with her hair and eyes, from nor mother, '' Van Dyke has asked me to marry him."

I did not, answer for a moment. My thoughts were confused. My tongue seemed to stick tight to the roof of my mouth. Finally I asserted myself. "And you?" 1 demanded. She shook her head '• 1 cannot." she. said.

I wanted to know why. I foil that I knew. Kate blushed and hesitated. Then J demanded tho reason. " Why, Daddy, dear, if you must know," she said, "it's your saloon."

That was enough. Every one of my little family had struck at me pbout my business. I was hot. I told Kate what J had not told Ma.x. I let her know that the business bad educated hor, fed her, clothed her. given her all tho pretty knickknacks that young girls love. When I w;;,-> dono I felt that she owed me an apology. | did not get it.

•'Father," she said, "suppose you had been an eminent burglar and successful one, would you ha.ve expected me to grow up endorsing burglary as a profession?" It was a poser, and I did not answer it. But it made me think.

Three days later Van Dyke Browne walked into my saloon—for the first time in his life. He asked me if he could have a private talk with me. I had not thought about the young fellow one way or the* other.* Hia fancy name may have made me a bit prejudiced against him, but he was a clean-cut boy and he had a stiffness in his under jaw that 1 would have liked in my Mas.

I led him into a little box of a private office that I. had in the rear of my place. Ho came quickly to the thing that was uppermost in his mind. " .1 suppose Kate has told you that I want her to honour mo by becoming my wife?" he began. 1 nodded " Yes," then added, "' She served notice on me that she would not hnvo you—not so long as I stuck by this place." He gave a little awkward laugh. " I haven't been a vory good patron of yours, Mr Schwartz," lie said. " But I do want you to know that if you had a dozen saloons they wouldn't be factors in any affair between Kate and me. I don't think it fair to bring your saloon into our affair."

"Neither do I." T thought, and I felt that I could have slapped him on the back for the good fellow that he was. He began telling me of his plans. He had many ambitions, some good prospects with which to begin. When he was done ho was silent for a moment. Then ho said :

"Have I your backing, Mr Schwartz?"

"To the limit. Browne, and God bless both of you." A moment later I added :

" Have a drink? T've a rule against drinking myself, but I'll break it and break it gladlv on an occasion like this." • "Mo. thank you, Mr Schwartz. I don't drink—not even at such a time as this."

"Well, I'm glad you don't, Browne," said 1.

We had triumphed at last over Emerson Street—as much of a triumph as we might hope ever to accomplish. But the feeling of victory was not in my own heavt—and, as for Mamie, she must have been saddened at the thought of her little girl going out from her. for T told her that young Browne would take Kate sooner or later. You could reckon on his stiff, undershot jaw. " I wish that we might make a real triumph of it,*' said Mamie, when I had told her of the thoughts tha,t ran through my mind. "When pressed for an explanation she gave it: " What sort of a triumph is it to be when Kate has to apologise at every nook and comer for us and for our business? The doors may open for her—they may open yet for our goodlooking boy—but that does not mean that they are ever to open for you and me, father.*'

I began to find myself wondering if my wife was not right in the whole business—if I were not up against the impossible with my .saloon. I had been proud of my place. Now my pride lessened. It was a decent place and it was earning me a decent living. That was the way I thought of it. Apparently Riverport, the people in Riverport, whom I wanted to respect me and to respect my wife and children, thought differently.' The dripping of the water was be* ginning to wear away the stone. I went out into the yard. .Next door Mr Meredith, our neighbour, taking advantage of the long June twilight, was fussing with his garden. I stood for an instant, my arms on the palings of the fence that separated us. He saw me there, looked up pleasantly and smiled. "Hello, Schwartz!"

There must have been something in my acknowledgment of his greeting that brought him over to the fence. And when he was there an impulse, not to be easily controlled, seized me. "Mr Meredith," said I. "I'm thinking of giving up my saloon. Do you think you could find a job for me with the railroad?"

He looked at me sharply, seemed to think for a moment, then said :

"It is hard for a man who is close to forty to start in the railroad business. Like about every other business, it is made up of men who have educated themselves to it since boyhood- But we'd like to have you with us. And f can stretch a point and give a job to a man of your capacity. It won't be much a hundred or a hundred and fifty a month at the- best." It wasn't much. I made my decision.

"Can T come to you on the first of the month?" I. sard.

He laughed in a gentle way that he had. " You had better think it over, Schwartz," said he.

" I've been thinking it over for some years." was my reply. "Now I've made up my mind." "Schmitty" came up from New York on the first train after I had announced my intentions to the Bornstein brewery. He was filled with protests, but I just shook my head.

"No. 'Schmitty,'" I. said. "But I'm cutting out the entire game. I've found a good man to succeed me here and to represent you. and I'm getting out." That ended it.

It has been a little more than two years now since J first- went to work for the railroad. Mr Meredith seems satisfied with my work, and 1 have had two increases in niy salary. f am content-

Kate is to marry young Browne in tho spring, and Max has two or three affairs already, which is quite as I predicted. Our neighbours now come in and they r-eem to like us and we liko them. 'We enjoy our children, and they are not ashamed of us-—nor of their father's business.,

'The other dav the boy I had broken in at my old place came to me, ambition in his eyes, and told mo that he was opening a place of his own. "1 understand that you've some spare oa<sh tucked away, Mr Schwartz,'' said he.. "You know me. i thought perhaps you'd " 1 shook my bend. 1 liked the boy. That was why I would not back him with my money in a snloon. I told him the real problem, but he did not believe me. Ho went out from my desk laughing bis disbelief. But I am right. The laws of society are fixed; you cannot, break them. And society draws the line at tho saloon, aiul rightly so.