“Who's Finnegan?” asked the child. “He's the barkeeper who gave me something to eat when I first came to town. He's a good man, even if he is a barkeeper.” Samuel had often found himself thinking of Finnegan; for it had been altogether against his idea of things that a man so obviously well meaning should be selling liquor. And now suddenly a brilliant idea flashed across his mind. Why should he continue selling liquor? And instantly Samuel saw a new duty before him. He must help Finnegan. And forgetting that it was time for his dinner, he bade good-by to Sophie and went into the saloon. “Well, young feller!” exclaimed the Irishman, his face lighting up with pleasure; and then, seeing the boy's new collar and tie, “Gee, you're moving up in the world!” “I've got a job,” said Samuel proudly. “I'm the assistant sexton at St. Matthew's Church.” “You don't say! Gone up with the sky pilots, hey!” Samuel did not notice this irreverent remark. He looked around the place and saw that they were alone. Then he said, very earnestly, “Mr. Finnegan, may I have a few minutes' talk with you?” “Sure,” said Finnegan perplexed. “What is it?” “It's something I've been thinking about very often,” said Samuel. “You were so kind to me, and I saw that you were a good-hearted man. And so it has always seemed to me too bad that you should be selling drink.” The other stared at him. “Gee!” he said, “are you going to take me up in your airship?” “Mr. Finnegan,” said the boy, “I wish you wouldn't make fun of me. For I'm talking to you out of the bottom of my heart.” And Samuel gazed with so much yearning in his eyes that the man was touched, in spite of the absurdity of it. “Go on,” he said. “I'll listen.” “It's just this,” said Samuel. “It's wrong to sell liquor! Think what drink does to men? I saw a man drunk the other night and it led to what was almost murder. Drink makes men cruel and selfish. It takes away their self-control. It makes them unfit for their work. It leads to vice and wickedness. It enslaves them and degrades them. Don't you know that is true, Mr. Finnegan?” “Yes,” admitted Finnegan, “I reckon it is. I never touch the stuff myself.” “And still you sell it to others?” “Well, my boy, I don't do it because I hate them.” “But then, why DO you do it?” “I do it,” said Finnegan, “because I have to live. It's my trade--it's all I know.” “It seems such a terrible trade!” exclaimed the boy. “Maybe,” said the other. “But take notice, it ain't a princely one. I'm on the job all day and a good part of the night, and standing up all the time. And I don't get no holidays either--and I only get twelve a week. And I've a wife and a new baby. So what's a man to do?” Now, strange as it may seem, this unfolded a new view to Samuel. He had always supposed that bartenders and saloonkeepers were such from innate depravity. Could it really be that they were driven to the trade?