There was a drunken man in the Mayor’s court that morning. An old man. Wint knew him. He was that man who had embraced Wint in the office of the Weaver House, on the morning after the election. The incident seemed to have happened infinitely long ago; yet it was horribly vivid in Wint’s memory still. The man had treated him like a boon companion, a good, understanding comrade. He had assumed a fellowship between them; the fellowship of drink. The shame of it was that his assumption had been justified.... The man reminded Wint of the incident, this day in court. He was miserably sober when they brought him in, miserably sober, and trembling to be drunk again. “Don’t be hard on a fellow, your Honor,” he pleaded with Wint. “You know how it is. You remember. That day; day after you was elected. You’re a good pal, Mayor, your Honor. Don’t go to be too hard on a man.” He had been in court before; Wint had fined him, had sent him to jail. The futility of these measures came home crushingly to Wint just now. The man was not helped by them; he was as bad as ever. Worse, perhaps. A revolt against this whole system of punishment boiled up in Wint. He said, without considering: “All right. Try to let it alone. Get out.” Young Foster, the city solicitor, looked surprised and pained as though Wint had insulted him. Marshal Jim Radabaugh grinned good-naturedly. The man himself crowded up to Wint’s desk with his thanks, and poured them out, and at last whispered humbly: “You haven’t got a dime to give a man, have you, Mayor, your Honor? I’m shaking for a drink. You know how that is. Just a dime, your Honor.” Wint gave him a quarter, and Foster said: “Well, I’ll be damned!” The man went out, calling blessings on Wint’s head. Foster demanded: “What’s the idea, anyway, Wint? He’s a common souse.” “I’m sick of sending him to jail,” said Wint hotly. “I’m not going to do it any more. What good does it do?” “Keeps him sober, anyway. You as good as told him to go and get drunk again.” “Well, let him,” said Wint. “What else is there for him to do?” “Go to work.” “He looks fit for work, doesn’t he?” “Whose fault is that?” “Yes,” said Wint, “whose fault is it? Whose fault that he is what he is? Whose fault that he can buy a drink in a dry town? Whose fault is it, Foster, anyway?” Foster laughed. “Well, what’s the answer?” Wint leaned back in his chair, eyes down, considering. He was thinking of Hetty; he could not help it. And the end of his thinking was this. He looked at Marshal Jim Radabaugh, and said evenly: “Mister marshal, don’t arrest any more men in Hardiston for being drunk unless they--commit other crimes.” There was a bite in the last word. But Jim Radabaugh only grinned and said: “All right, you’re boss.” Foster started to protest. Wint asked: “Any more cases?” “No. But damn it all, Wint! Listen--” “I don’t want to listen,” Wint told him. “I’m through. Court’s adjourned. Don’t--”