“Business with a pack of cards, I make no doubt; or else with rum or madeira.”

’Twas the second of these conjectures that turned out right.  For Mr. Edward did not come home in time to occupy at supper the place that had been set for him.  When he did appear, he said he had already eaten.  Perhaps it was to strengthen his courage for meeting his father, that he had imbibed to the stage wherein he vilely smelt of spirits and his eyes and face were flushed.  He was certainly bold enough when he received his father’s cold greeting in the parlour, about nine o’clock at night.

“And, pray, what circumstance gives us the honour of this visit?” asked Mr. Faringfield, not dissembling his disgust.

“Why,” says Mr. Ned, quite undaunted, and dropping his burly form into an armchair with an air of being perfectly at home, “to tell the truth, ’tis a hole, the place you sent me to; a very hell-hole.”

“By what arrangement with Mr. Culverson did you leave it?” Mr. Culverson was the Barbadoes merchant by whom Edward had been employed.

“Culverson!” echoed Ned, with a grin.  “I doubt there was little love lost between me and Culverson!  ‘Culverson,’ says I, ’the place is a hole, and the next vessel bound for New York, I go on her.’  ’And a damned good riddance!’ says Culverson (begging your pardon!  I’m only quoting what the man said), and that was the only arrangement I remember of.”

“And so that you are here, what now?” inquired Mr. Faringfield, looking as if he appreciated Mr. Culverson’s sentiments.

“Why, sir, as for that, I think ’tis for you to say.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Yes, sir, seeing that I’m your son, whom you’re bound to provide for.”

“You are twenty-two, I think,” says Mr. Faringfield.

“I take it, a few paltry years more or less don’t alter my rights, or the responsibilities of a parent.  Don’t think, sir, I shall stand up and quietly see myself robbed of my birthright.  I’m no longer the man to play the Esek, or Esock, or whatever—­”

“Esau,” prompted Fanny, in a whisper.

“And my mouth isn’t to be stopped by any mess of porridge.”

“Pottage,” corrected Fanny.

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Faringfield, rising, and holding himself very stiffly, “I’ll think upon it.”  Whereupon he went into the library, and closed the door after him.

’Tis certain that he had both the strength and the inclination to chastise his son for these insulting rum-incited speeches, and to cast him out to shift for his own future; instead of enduring heedlessly the former, and offering to consider the latter.  His strength was equal to his pride, and he was no colder without than he was passionate within.  But there was one thing his strength of mind fell short of facing, and that was the disgrace to the family, which the eldest son might bring were he turned looser, unprovided for, in New York.  ’Twas the fear of such disgrace that always led Mr. Faringfield to send Ned far away; and made him avoid any scene of violence which the youth, now that he was a man and grown bold, might precipitate in discussions such as the father had but now cut short.