ght spunk this evening, and told
the old man to go home about his business."

"So do I," chimed in the young disciple in this bad school. "It's what
I'd say to my old man, in double quick time, if he was to come hunting
after me."

"He knows better than to do that," said the other, in a way that let me
deeper into the young man's character.

"Indeed he does. He's tried his hand on me once or twice during the
last year, but found it wouldn't do, no how; Tom Peters is out of his
leading-strings."

"And can drink his glass with any one, and not be a grain the worse for
it."

"Exactly, old boy!" said Peters, slapping his preceptor on the knee.
"Exactly! I'm not one of your weak-headed ones. Oh no!"

"Look here, Joe Morgan!"--the half-angry voice of Simon Slade now rung
through the bar-room,--"just take yourself off home!"

I had not observed the entrance of this person. He was standing at the
bar, with an emptied glass in his hand. A year had made no improvement
in his appearance. On the contrary, his clothes were more worn and
tattered; his countenance more sadly marred. What he had said to
irritate the landlord, I know not; but Slade's face was fiery with
passion, and his eyes glared threateningly at the poor besotted one,
who showed not the least inclination to obey.

"Off with you, I say! And never show your face here again. I won't have
such low vagabonds as you are about my house. If you can't keep decent
and stay decent, don't intrude yourself here."

"A rum-seller talk of decency!" retorted Morgan. "Pah! You were a
decent man once, and a good miller into the bargain. But that time's
past and gone. Decency died out when you exchanged the pick and
facing-hammer for the glass and muddler. Decency! Pah! How you talk! As
if it were any more decent to sell rum than to drink it."

There was so much of biting contempt in the tones, as well as the words
of the half-intoxicated man, that Slade, who had himself been drinking
rather more freely than usual, was angered beyond self-control.
Catching up an empty glass from the counter, he hurled it with all his
strength at the head of Joe Morgan. The missive just grazed one of his
temples, and flew by on its dangerous course. The quick sharp cry of a
child startled the air, followed by exclamations of alarm and horror
from many voices.

"It's Joe Morgan's child!" "He's killed her!" "Good heavens!" Such were
the exclamations that rang through the room. I was among the