And so Mr. Bacon went on drinking “temperately” until habit, from claiming a moderate indulgence, began to make, so it seemed to his friends, rather unreasonable demands.  Besides this habit of drinking, Mr. Bacon had another habit, that of industry; and, what was unusual, the former did not abate the latter, though it must be owned that it sadly interfered with its efficiency.  He was up, as we have said, with the dawn, and all the day he was busy at work; but, somehow or other, his land did not produce as liberally as in former times, and there was slowly creeping over every thing around him an aspect of decay.  Moreover, he did not manage, as well as formerly, the selling part of his business.  In fact, his shrewdness of mind was gone.  Alcohol had confused his brain.  Gradually he was retrograding; and, while more than half conscious of the ruin that was in advance of him, he was not fully enough awake to feel seriously alarmed, nor to begin anxiously to seek for the cause of impending evil.  And so it went on until Mr. Bacon, suddenly found himself in the midst of real trouble.  The value of his farm, which, after parting with the twenty acres of meadow land, contained but twenty-five acres, had been yearly diminishing in consequence of bad culture, and defective management of his stock had reduced that until it was of little consequence.

The holder of the mortgage was a man named Dyer, who kept a tavern in the village that lay a mile distant from the little white farm-house of Mr. Bacon.  When Dyer commenced his liquor-selling trade, for that was his principal business, he had only a few hundred dollars; now he was worth thousands, and was about the only man in the neighbourhood who had money to lend.  His loans were always made on bond and mortgage, and, it was a little remarkable, that he was never known to let a sober, industrious farmer or store-keeper have a single dollar.  But, a drinking man, who was gradually wasting his substance, rarely applied to him in vain; for he was the cunning spider watching for the silly fly.  More than one worn-out and run-down farm had already come into his hands, through the foreclosure of mortgages, at a time of business depression, when his helpless victims could find no sympathizing friends able to save them from ruin.

One day, in mid-winter, as Mr. Bacon was cutting wood at his rather poorly furnished wood pile, the tavern-keeper rode up.  There was something in his countenance that sent a creeping sense of fear to the heart of the farmer.

“Good morning, Mr. Dyer,” said he.

“Good morning,” returned the tavern-keeper, formally.  His usual smile was absent from his face.

“Sharp day, this.”

“Yes, rather keen.”

“Won’t you walk in and take something?”

“No, thank you.  H-h-e-em!”

There was a pause.

“Mr. Bacon.”

The farmer’s eye sunk beneath the cold steady look of Dyer.