"If I denied the untruths told of me I should have my hands full. n.o.body believes such things, except the people who are ready to believe them.

They wouldn't believe otherwise, no matter what I said. If you think a man is a scoundrel, you are not going to believe his word."

"But, Peter," said Mrs. D'Alloi, "you ought to deny them for the future.

After you and your friends are dead, people will go back to the newspapers, and see what they said about you, and then will misjudge you."

"I am not afraid of that. I shall hardly be of enough account to figure in history, or if I become so, such attacks will not hurt me. Why, Washington was charged by the papers of his day, with being a murderer, a traitor, and a tyrant. And Lincoln was vilified to an extent which seems impossible now. The greater the man, the greater the abuse."

"Why do the papers call you 'Pete'?" asked Leonore, anxiously. "I rather like Peter, but Pete is dreadful!"

"To prove that I am unfit to be governor."

"Are you serious?" asked Miss Biddle.

"Yes. From their point of view, the dropping of the 'r' ought to convince voters that I am nothing but a tough and heeler."

"But it won't!" declared Leonore, speaking from vast experience.

"I don't think it will. Though if they keep at it, and really convince the voters who can be convinced by such arguments, that I am what they call me, they'll elect me."

"How?" asked Mrs. D'Alloi.

"Because intelligent people are not led astray but outraged by such arguments, and ignorant people, who can be made to believe all that is said of me, by such means, will think I am just the man for whom they want to vote."

"How is it possible that the papers can treat you so?" said Watts. "The editors know you?"

"Oh, yes. I have met nearly every man connected with the New York press."

"They must know better?"

"Yes. But for partisan purposes they must say what they do."

"Then they are deliberately lying to deceive the people?" asked Miss Biddle.

"It's rather a puzzling matter in ethics," said Peter. "I don't think that the newspaper fraternity have any lower standard of morals, than men in other professions. In the main they stand for everything that is admirable, so long as it's non-partisan, and some of the men who to-day are now writing me down, have aided me in the past more than I can say, and are at this moment my personal friends."

"How dishonest!"

"I cannot quite call it that. When the greatest and most honorable statesmen of Europe and America will lie and cheat each other to their utmost extent, under cover of the term 'diplomacy,' and get rewarded and praised by their respective countries for their knavery, provided it is successful, I think 'dishonest' is a strong word for a merely partisan press. Certain it is, that the partisan press would end to-morrow, but for the narrowness and meanness of readers."

"Which they cause," said Ogden.

"Just as much," said Peter, "as the saloon makes a drunkard, food causes hunger, and books make readers."

"But, at least, you must acknowledge they've got you, when they say you are the saloon-keepers' friend," laughed Watts.

"Yes. I am that--but only for votes, you understand."

"Mr. Stirling, why do you like saloons?" asked Miss Biddle.

"I don't like saloons. My wish is to see the day come, when such a gross form of physical enjoyment as tippling shall cease entirely. But till that day comes, till humanity has taught itself and raised itself, I want to see fair play."

"What do you mean?"

"The rich man can lay in a stock of wine, or go to a hotel or club, and get what he wants at any time and all times. It is not fair, because a man's pockets are filled with nickels instead of eagles, that he shall not have the same right. For that reason, I have always spoken for the saloon, and even for Sunday openings. You know what I think myself of that day. You know what I think of wine. But if I claim the right to spend Sunday in my way and not to drink, I must concede an equal right to others to do as they please. If a man wants to drink at any time, what right have I to say he shall not?"

"But the poor man goes and makes a beast of himself," said Watts.

"There is as much champagne drunkenness as whisky drunkenness, in proportion to the number of drinkers of each. But a man who drinks champagne, is sent home in a cab, and is put to bed, while the man who can't afford that kind of drink, and is made mad by poisoned and doctored whisky, doctored and poisoned because of our heavy tax on it, must take his chance of arrest. That is the shameful thing about all our so-called temperance legislation. It's based on an unfair interference with personal liberty, and always discriminates in favor of the man with money. If the rich man has his club, let the poor man have his saloon."

"How much better, though," said Mrs. D'Alloi, "to stop the sale of wine everywhere."

"That is neither possible nor right. You can't strengthen humanity by tying its hands. It must be left free to become strong. I have thought much about the problem, and I see only one fair and practical means of bettering our present condition. But boss as the papers say I am, I am not strong enough to force it."

"What is that, Peter?" asked Dorothy.

"So long as a man drinks in such a way as not to interfere with another person's liberty we have no right to check him. But the moment he does, the public has a right to protect itself and his family, by restraining him, as it does thieves, or murderers, or wife-beaters. My idea is, that a license, something perhaps like our dog-license, shall be given to every one who applies for it. That before a man can have a drink, this license must be shown. Then if a man is before the police court a second time, for drunkenness, or if his family pet.i.tion for it, his license shall be cancelled, and a heavy fine incurred by any one who gives or sells that man a drink thereafter."

"Oh," laughed Watts, "you are heavenly! Just imagine a host saying to his dinner-party, 'Friends, before this wine is pa.s.sed, will you please show me your drink licenses.'"

"You may laugh, Watts," said Peter, "but such a request would have saved many a young fellow from ruin, and society from an occasional terrible occurrence which even my little social experience has shown me. And it would soon be so much a matter of course, that it would be no more than showing your ticket, to prove yourself ent.i.tled to a ride. It solves the problem of drunkenness. And that is all we can hope to do, till humanity is--" Then Peter, who had been looking at Leonore, smiled.

"Is what?" asked Leonore.

"The rest is in cipher," said Peter, but if he had finished his sentence, it would have been, "half as perfect as you are."

After this last relay of callers had departed, it began to pour so n.o.bly that Peter became hopeful once more. He wandered about, making a room-to-room canva.s.s, in search of happiness, and to his surprise saw happiness descending the broad stair incased in an English shooting-cap, and a mackintosh.

"You are not going out in such weather?" demanded Peter.

"Yes. I've had no exercise to-day, and I'm going for a walk."

"It's pouring torrents," expostulated Peter.

"I know it."

"But you'll get wet through."

"I hope so. I like to walk in the rain."

Peter put his hand on the front door-handle, to which this conversation had carried them, "You mustn't go out," he said.

"I'm going," said Leonore, made all the more eager now that it was forbidden.

"Please don't," said Peter weakening.

"Let me pa.s.s," said Leonore decisively.

"Does your father know?"