“Why not?”

Chase laughed shortly. “The present Mayor--”

Amos interrupted. “I’m a wet man, Chase. You know that. I guess you are, too, ain’t you?”

Chase shook his head sternly. “No, indeed. Prohibition is the greatest good for the greatest number. I want to see it sweep the country--state-wide--nation-wide.”

Amos looked startled. “I’m surprised.”

“There’s no question about it, Congressman. Prohibition is coming. And I’m for it.”

“You have--you ain’t a dry man, are you?”

“I believe in moderation.”

“Now that’s funny, too,” Amos commented, his head on one side in the familiar posture that suggested he was suffering from stiff neck. “Funny? Why?”

“You and me. Me--I’m a wet man; I believe in license. But I’m a teetotaller. You’re a dry man--but you like moderation. I’m for a wet state and a dry cellar--and you’re for a dry state and a wet cellar. Ain’t that always the way?”

Chase flushed stiffly. “Many great men have held public views differing from their private practice.”

“Who, f’r instance?”

“Why--many of them.”

Amos nodded. “Well, you’ve studied the thing. Maybe you’re right.”

“I am right.”

The Congressman looked at the other with a cold, quizzical light in his eyes. “How ’bout Wint? He hold your views?”

Chase turned red as fire. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“I heard he was a wet man, personally. But I wondered if he was dry like you in theory.”

The other said stiffly: “My son has disgraced me. I have been very angry with him. But it may have been as much my fault as his. I have tried to be patient. He understands, now, that if he continues--if he does not mend his 

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