being truthful.
He, he!"

"Oh, Marty!" ejaculated Janice, in horror. "You never! You don't!
You _can't_ be so mean!"

"Hi tunket!" exploded the boy. "What's the matter with you? What d'ye
mean? 'I never, I don't, I can't'! What sort of talk is that?"

"There's nothing funny about it," his cousin said sternly. "I want to
know if _you_ would mock at that poor man on the street?"

"At Narnay?"

"Yes."

"Why not?" demanded Marty. "He's only an old drunk. And he is great
fun."

"He--he is disgusting! He is horrid!" cried the girl earnestly. "He
is an awful, ruffianly creature, but he's nothing to laugh at. Listen,
Marty!" and vividly, with all the considerable descriptive powers that
she possessed, the girl repeated what had occurred when little Sophie
Narnay had run into her drunken parent on the street.

Marty was a boy, and not a thoughtful boy at all; but, as he listened,
the grin disappeared from his face and he did not look like laughing.

"Whew! The mean scamp!" was his comment. "Poor kid! Do you s'pose he
hurts her?"

"He hurts her--and her mother--and the two little boys--and that
unnamed baby--whenever he takes money to spend for drink. It doesn't
particularly matter whether he beats her. I don't think he does that,
or the child would not love him and make excuses for him. But tell me,
Marty Day! Is there anything funny in a man like that?"

"Whew!" admitted the boy. "It does look different when you think of it
that way. But some of these fellers that crook their elbows certainly
do funny stunts when they've had a few!"

"Marty Day!" cried Janice, clasping her hands, "I didn't notice it
before. But you even _talk_ differently from the way you used to.
Since the bar at the Inn has been open I believe you boys have got hold
of an entirely new brand of slang."

"Huh?" said Marty.

"Why, it is awful! I had been thinking that Mr. Parraday's license
only made a difference to himself and poor Marm Parraday and his
customers. But that is not so. Everybody in Polktown is affected by
the change. I am going to talk to Mr. Meddlar about it, or to Elder
Concannon. Something ought to be done."

"Hi tunket! There ye go!" chuckled Marty. "More _do something_
business. You'd better begin with Walky."

"Begin what with Walky?"

"Your temperance campaign, if that's what you mean," said the boy, more
soberly.

"Not Walky Dexter!" exclaimed Janice, amazed. "You don't mean the
li