“You’ll come to that later. The devil’s paths always start straight, my boy, but they end in wickedness. Promise me you won’t go any more.” “I can’t do that, mother. I am trying to help the men, and you ought not ask me to stop doing what may aid others.” “Oh, my boy, my boy!” sobbed the mother. “If you could only understand it, mother, as I have come to, you wouldn’t mind. Here, the saloon is chiefly a loafing place for the lazy and shiftless, but in New York, it’s very different. It’s the poor man’s club. If you could see the dark, cold, foul-aired tenements where they live, and then the bright, warm, cheerful saloons, that are open to all, you would see that it isn’t the drink that draws the men. I even wish the women could come. The bulk of the men are temperate, and only take a glass or two of beer or whisky, to pay for their welcome. They really go for the social part, and sit and talk, or read the papers. Of course a man gets drunk, sometimes, but usually it is not a regular customer, and even such cases would be fewer, it we didn’t tax whisky so outrageously that the dishonest barkeepers are tempted to doctor their whisky with drugs which drive men frantic if they drink. But most of the men are too sensible, and too poor, to drink so as really to harm themselves.” “Peter, Peter! To think that three years in New York should bring you to talk so! I knew New York was a sink-hole of iniquity, but I thought you were too good a boy to be misled.” “Mother, New York has less evil in it than most places. Here, after the mills shut down, there’s no recreation for the men, and so they amuse themselves with viciousness. But in a great place like New York, there are a thousand amusements specially planned for the evening hours. Exhibitions, theatres, concerts, libraries, lectures—everything to tempt one away from wrong-doing to fine things. And there wickedness is kept out of sight as it never is here. In New York you must go to it, but in these small places it hunts one out and tempts one.” “Oh, Peter! Here, where there’s room in church of a Sabbath for all the folks, while they say that in New York there isn’t enough seats in churches for mor’n a quarter of the people. A missionary was saying only last week that we ought to help raise money to build churches in New York. Just think of there being mor’n ten saloons for every church! And that my son should speak for them and spend nights in them!” “I’m sorry it troubles you so. If I felt I had any right to stop, I’d do it.” “You haven’t drunk in them yet, Peter?” “No.” “And you’ll promise to write me if you do.” “I’ll promise you I won’t drink in them, mother.” “Thank you, Peter.” Still his mother was terrified at the mere thought, and at her request, her clergyman spoke also to Peter. He was easier to deal with, and after a chat with Peter, he told Mrs. Stirling: “I think he is doing no harm, and may do much good. Let him do what he thinks best.”