ministration. But he and Obregon had clashed openly and violently. For months before the killing of Obregon, it had been growing more and more obvious that the Revolution could not hope to contain them both. At Obregon's monster demonstration in Mexi

co City following his nominal election,

there had been loud and significant cries of "Death to Morones!" Instead, a few days later, death eliminated Obregon. Soto y Gama promptly demanded the elimination of Morones, whom he charged with the intellectual authorship of the assassination.

UT, while these two personalities gyBU rated and shouted so conspicuously in the spotlight, there stood in the background the dark, silent little figure of an Indian warrior, Joaquin Amaro, Minister of War in the Calles Cabinet. Only a few years earlier, this swarthy Red Man, barefoot and with rings in his ears, had been the chieftain of a roving band in western Mexico. By sheer ability, determination, and assiduous study, he had raised himself in the Revolutionary ranks to the grade of General of Division and the post of Minister of War, the most important in the Cabinet. Step by step, he had prepared himself for the ascent. The half-naked Indian of earlier years had become a feared and respected warrior of parts. More than that, he had learned the customs of the

white man. Polo and golf became essentials features of his life. A trained valet contributed a share to the making of a soldierly man of the world.

THE Army, with Joaquin Amaro Tat its head, Plutarco Calles turned

when the first wild waves of rage and fierce disappointment threatened to engulf his Government. Ignoring the politicians of Agrarianism and Labor, he addressed his vital appeal for support directly to the soldiers of the Nation, hoping that they would be loyal to the hand that had so thoughtfully fed them. The Army, he knew, cared little for political agitators, were they Agrarians or Laborites. A loyal Army, he felt certain, guaranteed the maintenance of the authority of the Central Government, no matter how violently raged the political storm.

As this is written, the Army remains steadfast, and Calles still stands. With characteristic intensity of purpose, he bends to the task of saving from self-destruction the Revolution that raised him alone to supreme authority, the sole survivor of its chieftains. Other figures flit into the spotlight in bewildering succession, only to pass out again into the shadows; but Calles works on. And all the while, at home in Mexico and abroad, the conviction grows that the choice is Calles or chaos.

M®

I-The Comedy of It

R. S, an elderly and likeable Irishman, walked into my office, faking a cough. "Uh-bub! Uh-bub! Doctor, I think I must 've caught the epizootic! I'm all shtopped up with a cold, and I've come to see if you won't give me a preschription for a pint of whiskey!" I said "Sit down, Mr. S and let me look you over." And when I put my stethoscope to his chest I quickly discovered three things: first, that he had no cold at all; second, that his breath was reeking with alcohol; and third and most important by far, that the old man's heart was fibrillating badly. Without comment, I drew up to my desk and wrote a prescription for digitalis.

"Now I want you to go home and go to bed and take this medicine according to directions," I said; "your heart action is bad and you've got to be pretty careful for a while."

"All right, Doctor, I'll do what you say," he answered, without the least appearance of interest in my advice; "and now, about the prescription for whiskey?"

"Oh, now, Doctor! don't say that! I came specially to get it!" and the old fellow displayed some agitation for the first time.

"I know you did, and I'm very sorry," I said; "but it just won't do. Tell me, when did you have a drink of whiskey last?"

"Why, I haven't touched a drop for a week!" and he looked as innocent and candid as a small boy answering his mother that he has not been in the pantry. That shameless lie provoked me somewhat, so I took a rather mean revenge. "I'm glad to hear that," I said, "because, although it might be a question whether you ought to stop your whiskey short off if you were drinking now, I'm perfectly sure you mustn't start it, since you haven't had a drink for a week!"

The old fellow looked aghast. He saw he had said the wrong thing, and it was too late to change it. "Oh, come now, Doctor!" he begged, "please do write me a prescription! If your father was here he'd say, 'Go on, Armfield, let him have it!"

"That's a pretty hard plea to deny, Mr. S―," I said regretfully, "but I can't do it, I'm sorry to say. In the condition of your heart it would be very dangerous, and it would be an act of malpractice on my part.'

"Now listen, Doctor!" - this was his last desperate plea "if you say it would be bad for me, I will pledge you my word of honor as a gentleman that I won't touch it; but just give it to me anyhow!"

O

II-The Tragedy of It

NE afternoon, as I was sitting in my office with a patient, my doorbell rang so violently that I went to the door myself. A stranger said; "Doctor, we've got a man in the car and we want you to see if he's dead!"

I found a big, powerful automobile standing across the street, surrounded by five hard looking characters. On the back seat was the corpse of a young farmer. A moment's examination showed that he had been shot through the body. The spokesman for the party merely told me that they had 'found him in the woods!"

I didn't like the appearance of things at all, and so I called up the State's Attorney. He questioned the

woods, when they were on their way back to their car, after smashing the still. They had no idea how he got hurt! They were perfectly certain that they didn't do it! The State's Attorney questioned them separately and found discrepancies in their stories, so he sent them to jail. Then the mighty Government of the United States bestirred itself in behalf of its minions. The agents were quickly snatched from the Harford County jail and released on babeas corpus and put back to work at their noble trade! Then entered "the law's delay". The Maryland Free State pluckily opposed its puny power against the Federal Colossus. The Attorney-General of Maryland carried the case to the Supreme Court.

Naturally, when the shouting and the tumult died and the final curtain came down, the agents were triumphantly acquitted and vindicated.

But Wenger, inoffensive citizen of Harford County, is just as dead as though the bullet that entered his back as he ran had come from a German rifle during the late unpleasant

ness.

Ο

III- The Farce of It

NE night, shortly after Christmas,

hibition officers who had been raiding a still. It was the celebrated Wenger case. The papers were full of it, and it is unnecessary to go into the story. Poor Wenger, unarmed and helpless, died in the woods, drilled through by a rifle ball. The Prohibition officers denied killing him, although they were forced to admit that they had been shooting their guns wildly while pursuing three men who ran from them. Their story was that they just happened to find Wenger, dying, in the

house. "Mother and baby were doing well," and the time had come for the doctor to go home and get a little sleep before breakfast time. The newly-made grandfather shook my hand enthusiastically, and asked me if I ever took a drink? I admitted the soft impeachment, and he led me out to the dining room and with ostentatious pride opened the door of his sideboard and proceeded to extract bottles and set them out until there stood ranged before me the following

items, to wit: One quart of pre-war rye (I can testify to its excellence, for this is the bottle I sampled), two quarts of Scotch, two quarts of gin, one of rum, one of three star Hennessy, four bottles of wine, including a magnum of

off, romantic business, as alien as Indian thuggee; one read about "blockaders", "revinooers" and "moonshiners" in Charles Egbert Craddock's novels of the Tennessee mountains.

HEN two things happened. First,

"Now take your pick, Doctor!" he said, swelling with pride. "What do you think of that collection? Where do you think I got it? That's a Christmas present!"

"What! all of it?" I asked. "Yes, all of it! It's a little Christmas present from a friend of mine - a Prohibition Agent!"

necessary.

I have reached into the reservoir of my memory and selected offhand these three anecdotes to illustrate the three main divisions of the drama. Under each head I could relate plenty more. The word that best describes the whole Prohibition situation among us in good old Harford County is "squalid."

THIS has always been a law abiding,

conservative community. Serious crimes have been rare in our history, and as for offenses against the Federal Government, they were almost unheard of before the great Moral Revolution of 1919. At long intervals, some misguided and unfortunate and unfortunate youth might break into a rural postoffice and steal a few postage stamps; for him Nemesis was swift and sure, and the penitentiary engulfed him. There was a feeling akin to superstition among the criminally inclined that it was in the highest degree unhealthy to monkey with Uncle Sam. As for "moonshining", that was a far

One of the first arrivals of those mountaineers was asked by a curious native if he knew anything about moonshine liquor? "Why, sho' suh! I ben makin' it all my life. Would you like to have some whiskey? Let's see, I reckon I got ev'thing else I need; if you'll supply me with about twelve foot of copper tubin' and a Winchester rifle, I'll make you all you want!"

The second thing that happened was, of course, Prohibition. Immedi

ately the hereditary moonshiners all

went to work, and they found many an apt and willing pupil among the natives. Now, there are stills all over the place, and "corn" is very plentiful and cheap, and usually as vile a beverage as the world can offer. Not but what if, as sometimes happens, it is honestly made and allowed at least six months to age in charred wood, it begins to approach the state of being a civilized drink. I have tasted illicit "corn" that equalled the "Bourbon" my father used to fancy in a happier day. But in most cases it is drunk "hot from the still ", and is only fit for those who feel like the China

man who said, “Me no drinkee for drinkee, me drinkee for drunkee!" Even so, I would much rather force down the acrid, nauseous stuff, reeking with aldehydes (I have done it, out of courtesy to my patients, more than once), than take a chance with some of the more pretentious wares the bootleggers often vend; "Scotch", built up from de-denaturized spirits. The good old "corn" at least is innocent of wood alcohol.

RUNKENNESS is quite prevalent and

Dis increasing and, worst of all, it in

volves all ranks of society, all ages and both sexes. A North Carolinian told me the following prodigious story, with the open eyes of wonder. He said that he happened to be at the home of a neighbor of his, also a Tar Heel. Several others were present, when a native Harford County farmer drove in on some business. His host, with true Southern hospitality, asked him if he would take a drink of whiskey. He admitted that he might be persuaded to do so, and the host said to his son, "Bill, git some liquor!" Bill went out and returned with an ordinary water tumbler level full to the brim with "corn", and handed it to the guest, whom we will call Smith. At that point the mores of Maryland

and North Carolina clashed. The local rule of conduct in such case made and provided is simple. It may be summed up thus: "When you get a chance at some liquor, take all you can, because God knows when you will get any more!" The Tar Heels, who all make it and always have it on hand, do not need to be so hoggish; on the other hand, they are a primitive folk and do not possess much household gear. A supply of whiskey glasses to hand

around, for example, would be unheard of. Consequently, they pass the beaker from hand to hand, like a loving cup. That was what they all expected on the present occasion when the glass was handed to Smith first, as the guest of honor. But he accepted it, said, "Well, gentlemen, here's luck!" and poured it down his capacious maw, to the last drop! "Doctor," said my awe-struck informant, "he jist histed hit, give two swallers, and sat down the glass empty!" The company were dashed and disappointed,

but too polite, of course, to comment

on Smith's curious behavior, and presently he arose to depart. His host, courteous to the last, said "Won't you take another drink before you go, Mr. Smith?" Well, perhaps he would, so again the fiat went forth, "Bill, git some more whiskey!" As the latter went out Smith called after him, "Don't fill it quite so full, this time!" But Bill, hoping against hope that perhaps this time there might be some left for the others, again brought the glass level full to the brim, and presented it to Smith, who said; "Here's looking at you!" and sent that half pint after the first!

Heel," what do you reckon the "DOCTOR," asked the puzzled Tar linin' of his stomach was like after puttin' down a pint of corn likker one week old an' about a hundred and ten proof without ary water at all?”

"Perfectly raw!" was my guess. "That thar's my notion," he replied, "anyway, he never got home. They done found him in the fence corner next mornin'!"

A curious and illogical distinction is made by the great moralists who direct our lives and dictate our private