"Walker House," he moaned. "First-class accommodation
for--" then he broke down and cried.
"Take this handbag," I said to one of the men, "to the
_Prince George_."
The man ceased his groaning for a moment and turned to
me with something like passion.
"Why do you come to _us_?" he protested. "Why not go to
one of the others. Go to _him_," he added, as he stirred
with his foot a miserable being who lay huddled on the
ground and murmured at intervals, "_Queen's_! Queen's
Hotel."
But my new friend, who stood at my elbow, came to my
rescue.
"Take his bags," he said, "you've got to. You know the
by-law. Take it or I'll call a policeman. You know _me_.
My name's Narrowpath. I'm on the council."
The man touched his hat and took the bag with a murmured
apology.
"Come along," said my companion, whom I now perceived to
be a person of dignity and civic importance. "I'll walk
up with you, and show you the city as we go."
We had hardly got well upon the street before I realized
the enormous change that total prohibition had effected.
Everywhere were the bright smiling faces of working
people, laughing and singing at their tasks, and, early
though it was, cracking jokes and asking one another
riddles as they worked.
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