Wint chuckled. “Ought to do you and Hardiston both some good.” “Prosecuting all those cases.” “Oh, there won’t be many cases,” Wint said cheerfully. “A lot you know. Why won’t there?” “Because,” said Wint, “I’m going to see that the first man in here gets soaked, good and proper. I’m going to put the fear of--the fear of me into them.” “You can’t scare those fellows.” “Well,” Wint admitted, “that may be so. But I’m surely going to try.” Foster had amused him, and encouraged him; but when Foster was gone, and he was left alone, his depression of the night before returned. He locked his door. He did not want to see people. And he sat down to think. Radabaugh came in a little before noon to report what he had done. Wint listened, studying the marshal. “Think Lutcher will keep straight?” he asked. “I should think so.” “How about Mrs. Moody?” “She’ll need watching.” “See that you watch her.” “I’m right on the job,” Radabaugh assured him easily; and Jim knew the marshal meant what he said. “I’ve left ’em run before, because there wasn’t any kick made. If you say shut ’em off, I’ll do it. That’s all.” “I do say it,” Wint told him. He got up and gripped the other’s shoulder, something of the excitement of the coming fight already stirring in him. “Jim, we’ll make Hardiston dry as a bone.” Radabaugh spat. “We-ell,” he drawled, “it don’t take much booze to wet a bone. But we’ll see to it the stuff don’t go sloshing around the gutters, anyway.” For his lunch, Wint went to fat Sam O’Brien’s restaurant. He liked the place. The long, high counter, scrubbed white as the deck of a ship; the revolving stools before the counter; the shelves on which bottles of mustards and catsups and spices were ranged; and big Sam O’Brien in his vast white apron presiding over it all. There was a mechanical piano which played a tune for a nickel in the back of the restaurant, and it was jangling and tinkling when Wint came in. Half a dozen men were there before him; and they grinned when they saw Wint, and spoke among themselves. Sam O’Brien welcomed him with a chuckle. O’Brien was a jocular man. He set plate and knife and fork and a thick glass of water before Wint, and spread his hands on the counter, and asked in a booming voice: “Well, how’s your appetite, you bold crusader?” Wint flushed, and said uncomfortably: “Cut it out, Sam!” The restaurant proprietor had his own ideas of a joke; and he made the most of them. At Wint’s words, he threw back his head and laughter poured out of him. He rocked, he slapped his great fist on the counter. “Cut it out?” he repeated. “Oh, Wint, you’re the funny man. Cut it out, he says! The whole blamed town. ‘The booze is getting you, Hardiston. Cut it out,’ he says!” He bellowed the words. “Cut it out! Cut it out! Oh, Wint, you’ll be the death o’ me.”