Jonathan Eccles kept both hands firmly in his pockets.

“Are you drunk?” he repeated.

Robert controlled himself to answer, “I’m not.”

“Well, then, just tell me when you were drunk last.”

“This is a pleasant fatherly greeting!” Robert interjected.

“You get no good by fighting shy of a simple question, Mr. Bob,” said Jonathan.

Robert cried querulously, “I don’t want to fight shy of a simple question.”

“Well, then; when were you drunk last? answer me that.”

“Last night.”

Jonathan drew his hand from his pocket to thump his leg.

“I’d have sworn it!”

All Robert’s assurance had vanished in a minute, and he stood like a convicted culprit before his father.

“You know, sir, I don’t tell lies.  I was drunk last night.  I couldn’t help it.”

“No more could the little boy.”

“I was drunk last night.  Say, I’m a beast.”

“I shan’t!” exclaimed Jonathan, making his voice sound as a defence to this vile charge against the brutish character.

“Say, I’m worse than a beast, then,” cried Robert, in exasperation.  “Take my word that it hasn’t happened to me to be in that state for a year and more.  Last night I was mad.  I can’t give you any reasons.  I thought I was cured but I’ve trouble in my mind, and a tide swims you over the shallows—­so I felt.  Come, sir—­father, don’t make me mad again.”

“Where did you get the liquor?” inquired Jonathan.

“I drank at ‘The Pilot.’”

“Ha! there’s talk there of ‘that damned old Eccles’ for a month to come—­ ‘the unnatural parent.’  How long have you been down here?”

“Eight and twenty hours.”

“Eight and twenty hours.  When are you going?”

“I want lodging for a night.”

“What else?”

“The loan of a horse that’ll take a fence.”

“Go on.”

“And twenty pounds.”

“Oh!” said Jonathan.  “If farming came as easy to you as face, you’d be a prime agriculturalist.  Just what I thought!  What’s become of that money your aunt Jane was fool enough to bequeath to you?”

“I’ve spent it.”

“Are you a Deserter?”

For a moment Robert stood as if listening, and then white grew his face, and he swayed and struck his hands together.  His recent intoxication had unmanned him.

“Go in—­go in,” said his father in some concern, though wrath was predominant.

“Oh, make your mind quiet about me.”  Robert dropped his arms.  “I’m weakened somehow—­damned weak, I am—­I feel like a woman when my father asks me if I’ve been guilty of villany.  Desert?  I wouldn’t desert from the hulks.  Hear the worst, and this is the worst:  I’ve got no money—­I don’t owe a penny, but I haven’t got one.”

“And I won’t give you one,” Jonathan appended; and they stood facing one another in silence.