“It runs through the churches as well as the theatres. As long as the public wanted hell-fire, the ministers gave them hell-fire. But you couldn't get hell-fire--not the pure, old-fashioned brimstone article--out of a popular preacher now, for love or money.” The little man said, “I guess you've got about the size of it there”; and the manager laughed. “It's just so with the newspapers, too,” said Bartley. “Some newspapers used to stand out against publishing murders, and personal gossip, and divorce trials. There ain't a newspaper that pretends to keep anyways up with the times, now, that don't do it! The public want spice, and they will have it!” “Well, sir,” said the manager, “that's my way of looking at it. I say, if the public don't want Shakespeare, give 'em burlesque till they're sick of it. I believe in what Grant said: 'The quickest way to get rid of a bad law is to enforce it.'” “That's so,” said the little man, “every time.” He added, to the bar-keeper, that he guessed he would have some brandy and soda, and Bartley found himself at the bottom of his second tumbler. He ordered it replenished. The little man seemed to be getting further away. He said, from the distance to which he had withdrawn, “You want to go to bed with three nightcaps on, like an old-clothes man.” Bartley felt like resenting the freedom, but he was anxious to pour his ideas of journalism into the manager's sympathetic ear, and he began to talk, with an impression that it behooved him to talk fast. His brain was still very clear, but his tongue was getting stiffer. The manager now had his Welsh rabbit before him; but Bartley could not make out how it had got there, nor when. He was talking fast, and he knew, by the way everybody was listening, that he was talking well. Sometimes he left his table, glass in hand, and went and laid down the law to the manager, who smilingly assented to all he said. Once he heard a low growling at his feet, and, looking down, he saw the dog with his plate of cold chicken, that had also been conjured into the room somehow. “Look out,” said the manager, “he'll nip you in the leg.” “Curse the dog! he seems to be on all sides of you,” said Bartley. “I can't stand anywhere.” “Better sit down, then,” suggested the manager. “Good idea,” said the little man, who was still walking up and down. It appeared as if he had not spoken for several hours; his hat was further over his eyes. Bartley had thought he was gone. “What business is it of yours?” he demanded, fiercely, moving towards the little man. “Come, none of that,” said the bar-keeper, steadily. Bartley looked at him in amazement. “Where's your hat?” he asked. The others laughed; the bar-keeper smiled. “Are you a married man?” “Never mind!” said the bar-keeper, severely. Bartley turned to the little man: “You married?” “Not _much_,” replied the other. He was now topping off with a whiskey-straight. Bartley referred himself to the manager: “You?”