During the early part of the evening, considerable company was present, though not of a very select class.  A large proportion were young men.  To most of them the fact that Slade had fallen into the sheriff’s hands was known; and I gathered from some aside conversation which reached my ears, that Frank’s idle, spendthrift habits had hastened the present crisis in his father’s affairs.  He, too, was in debt to Judge Lyman—­on what account, it was not hard to infer.

It was after nine o’clock, and there were not half a dozen persons in the room, when I noticed Frank Slade go behind the bar for the third or fourth time.  He was just lifting a decanter of brandy, when his father, who was considerably under the influence of drink, started forward, and laid his hand upon that of his son.  Instantly a fierce light gleamed from the eyes of the young man.

“Let go of my hand!” he exclaimed.

“No, I won’t.  Put up that brandy bottle—­you’re drunk now.”

“Don’t meddle with me, old man!” angrily retorted Frank.  “I’m not in the mood to bear anything more from you.”

“You’re drunk as a fool now,” returned Slade, who had seized the decanter.  “Let go the bottle.”

For only an instant did the young man hesitate.  Then he drove his half-clenched hand against the breast of his father, who went staggering several paces from the counter.  Recovering himself, and now almost furious, the landlord rushed forward upon his son, his hand raised to strike him.

“Keep off!” cried Frank.  “Keep off!  If you touch me, I’ll strike you down!” At the same time raising the half-filled bottle threateningly.

But his father was in too maddened a state to fear any consequences, and so pressed forward upon his son, striking him in the face the moment he came near enough to do so.

Instantly, the young man, infuriated by drink and evil passions, threw the bottle at his father’s head.  The dangerous missile fell, crashing upon one of his temples, shivering it into a hundred pieces.  A heavy, jarring fall too surely marked the fearful consequences of the blow.  When we gathered around the fallen man, and made an effort to lift him from the floor, a thrill of horror went through every heart.  A mortal paleness was already on his marred face, and the death-gurgle in his throat!  In three minutes from the time the blow was struck, his spirit had gone upward to give an account of the deeds done in the body.

“Frank Slade! you have murdered your father!”

Sternly were these terrible words uttered.  It was some time before the young man seemed to comprehend their meaning.  But the moment he realized the awful truth, he uttered an exclamation of horror.  Almost at the same instant, a pistol-shot came sharply on the ear.  But the meditated self-destruction was not accomplished.  The aim was not surely taken; and the ball struck harmlessly against the ceiling.