“Well! this is the best joke of the season:  Tom Cary preaching temperance.  When do you expect to join the Crusade?  But, Oh! talk is cheap.”

“Cheap or dear, John Anderson, when I saw you giving liquor to that innocent boy, I couldn’t help thinking of my poor Charley.  He was just such a bright child as that, with beautiful brown eyes, and a fine forehead.  Ah that boy had a mind; he was always ahead in his studies.  But once when he was about twelve years old, I let him go on a travelling tour with his uncle.  He was so agreeable and wide awake, his uncle liked to have him for company; but it was a dear trip to my poor Charley.  During this journey they stopped at a hotel, and my brother gave him a glass of wine.  Better for my dear boy had he given him a glass of strychnine.  That one glass awakened within him a dreadful craving.  It raged like a hungry fire.  I talked to him, his mother pled with him, but it was no use, liquor was his master, and when he couldn’t get liquor I’ve known him to break into his pantry to get our burning fluid to assuage his thirst.  Sometimes he would be sober for several weeks at a time, and then our hopes would brighten that Charley would be himself again, and then in an hour all our hopes would be dashed to the ground.  It seemed as if a spell was upon him.  He married a dear good girl, who was as true as steel, but all her entreaties for him to give up drinking were like beating the air.  He drank, and drank, until he drank himself into the grave.”

By this time two or three loungers had gathered around John Anderson and Thomas Gary, and one of them said, “Mr. Gary you have had sad experience, why don’t you give up drinking yourself?”

“Give it up! because I can’t.  To-day I would give one half of my farm if I could pass by this saloon and not feel that I wanted to come in.  No, I feel that I am a slave.  There was a time when I could have broken my chain, but it is too late now, and I say young men take warning by me and don’t make slaves and fools of yourselves.”

“Now, Tom Cary,” said John Anderson, “it is time for you to dry up, we have had enough of this foolishness, if you can’t govern yourself, the more’s the pity for you.”

Just then the newsboy came along crying:  "Evening Mail.  All about the dreadful murder!  John Coots and James Loraine.  Last edition.  Buy a paper, Sir!  Here’s your last edition, all ’bout the dreadful murder".

“John Coots,” said several voices all at once, “Why he’s been here a half dozen times today.”

“I’ve drank with him,” said one, “at that bar twice since noon.  He had a strange look out of his eyes; and I heard him mutter something to himself.”

“Yes,” said another, “I heard him say he was going to kill somebody, ‘one or the other’s got to die,’ what does the paper say?”

“Love, Jealousy, and murder.”

“The old story,” said Anderson, looking somewhat relieved, “A woman’s at the bottom of it.”