B. B. nodded. “Anything new with you?” he asked, for everybody was a source of news to B. B. Beecham. That was why the _Journal_ was popular. “We-ell, I have got a sort of an item for you,” Jim told him. “Might be worth printing, maybe.” B. B. asked what it was; and Jim told him. “Wint’s give orders that the town’s going dry.” B. B. said: “H’m! Is that so?” And Jim said it was so. “Guess that’ll be an item folks will read,” he remarked. The editor shook his head. “We don’t feel we can print such things,” he said. “You see, it’s bad for Hardiston, outside. Legally, the town is already dry.” “I never did have much of any use for laws,” Jim drawled. “I suppose this means some work for you.” “Can’t say. Don’t think so. There won’t be much of it done, except a little, on the sly. Not after the word I’ve passed around.” “Well, it won’t do Hardiston any harm. Even as things are, they are better than they used to be. I can remember thirteen saloons here at one time. How many have there been, under cover?” “Three-four, regular,” Jim told him. “Very few people will really miss them,” B. B. said. “People do so many things, just because they’re in the habit, and the things are waiting to be done. It’s surprising how much a man can give up without realizing that he’s giving up anything. I don’t suppose you ever thought of that.” “Can’t say I ever did,” said Jim, and spat into the stove. “Like the horse in the story. You’ve heard about the horse?” “What horse?” “Oh, you haven’t heard it? The horse that was trained to live without eating.” Jim looked mildly interested. “I’ll say that was some horse,” he remarked. “What happened to him?” “Why, just as the man got him trained, the horse died,” said B. B.; and Jim chuckled, and B. B. laughed in the silently uproarious way habitual to him. Then Jim saw V. R. Kite pass by on the way to the Bazaar and got up quickly. “There’s Kite,” he said. “See you later.” He overtook the little man just inside the Bazaar; and Kite heard his step and turned and looked at him, and Jim saw that Kite knew. But he only said: “Hello, Kite. Want to talk to you a minute.” “Come back to my desk,” said Kite, and led the way, walking stiffly, head high, ever so much like a turkey. Jim marked this peculiarity to himself. “Exactly like a man looking over a high fence,” he thought. “I’ll declare, it is.” Kite sat down, tugged at his side whiskers, and bade Jim speak. The marshal looked for a place to spit, saw none, swallowed hard, and said: “Guess you’ve heard the orders.” “What orders?” Kite asked harshly. But his face was livid, and the veins stood out on his forehead with his effort at self-control. “Mayor calls me up last night and tells me to stop whisky selling. Hardiston’s gone dry.” “What has that to do with me?” Kite demanded.