It _is_ a cursed traffic, and you and I ought
to have found it out long ago. _I_ have. I hope _you_ will. Now, I advise
you, as a friend, to give up selling rum for the future; you see what
it comes to,--don't you? At any rate, I will not be responsible for
the outrages that are perpetrated in my building any more,--I will not
have liquor sold here. I refuse to renew your lease. In three days you
must move."
"Dr. Renton, you hurt my feelin's. Now, how would you--"
"Mr. Rollins, I have spoken to you as a friend, and you have no cause
for pain. You must quit these premises when your lease expires. I'm
sorry I can't make you go before that. Make no appeals to me, if you
please. I am fixed. Now, sir, good night."
The curtain was pulled up, and Rollins rolled over to his beloved bar,
soothing his lacerated feelings by swearing like a pirate, while Dr.
Renton strode to the door, and went into the street, homeward.
He walked fast through the magical moonlight, with a strange feeling
of sternness, and tenderness, and weariness, in his mind.
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