Howard Littlefield observed, “What isn’t generally realized is that it’s a dangerous prop’sition to invade the rights of personal liberty. Now, take this for instance: The King of-- Bavaria? I think it was Bavaria--yes, Bavaria, it was--in 1862, March, 1862, he issued a proclamation against public grazing of live-stock. The peasantry had stood for overtaxation without the slightest complaint, but when this proclamation came out, they rebelled. Or it may have been Saxony. But it just goes to show the dangers of invading the rights of personal liberty.” “That’s it--no one got a right to invade personal liberty,” said Orville Jones. “Just the same, you don’t want to forget prohibition is a mighty good thing for the working-classes. Keeps ’em from wasting their money and lowering their productiveness,” said Vergil Gunch. “Yes, that’s so. But the trouble is the manner of enforcement,” insisted Howard Littlefield. “Congress didn’t understand the right system. Now, if I’d been running the thing, I’d have arranged it so that the drinker himself was licensed, and then we could have taken care of the shiftless workman--kept him from drinking--and yet not’ve interfered with the rights--with the personal liberty--of fellows like ourselves.” They bobbed their heads, looked admiringly at one another, and stated, “That’s so, that would be the stunt.” “The thing that worries me is that a lot of these guys will take to cocaine,” sighed Eddie Swanson. They bobbed more violently, and groaned, “That’s so, there is a danger of that.” Chum Frink chanted, “Oh, say, I got hold of a swell new receipt for home-made beer the other day. You take--” Gunch interrupted, “Wait! Let me tell you mine!” Littlefield snorted, “Beer! Rats! Thing to do is to ferment cider!” Jones insisted, “I’ve got the receipt that does the business!” Swanson begged, “Oh, say, lemme tell you the story--” But Frink went on resolutely, “You take and save the shells from peas, and pour six gallons of water on a bushel of shells and boil the mixture till--” Mrs. Babbitt turned toward them with yearning sweetness; Frink hastened to finish even his best beer-recipe; and she said gaily, “Dinner is served.” There was a good deal of friendly argument among the men as to which should go in last, and while they were crossing the hall from the living-room to the dining-room Vergil Gunch made them laugh by thundering, “If I can’t sit next to Myra Babbitt and hold her hand under the table, I won’t play-- I’m goin’ home.” In the dining-room they stood embarrassed while Mrs. Babbitt fluttered, “Now, let me see-- Oh, I was going to have some nice hand-painted place-cards for you but-- Oh, let me see; Mr. Frink, you sit there.” The dinner was in the best style of women’s-magazine art, whereby the salad was served in hollowed apples, and everything but the invincible fried chicken resembled something else.