“Fine girl, that sister of yours, Frank!  Fine girl!” said Green, after Flora had withdrawn—­speaking of her with about as much respect in his voice as if he were praising a fleet racer or a favorite hound.

The boy smiled, with a pleased air.

“I must try and find her a good husband, Frank.  I wonder if she wouldn’t have me?”

“You’d better ask her,” said the boy, laughing.

“I would if I thought there was any chance for me.”

“Nothing like trying.  Faint heart never won fair lady,” returned Frank, more with the air of a man than a boy.  How fast he was growing old!

“A banter, by George!” exclaimed Green, slapping his hands together.  “You’re a great boy, Frank! a great boy!  I shall have to talk to your father about you.  Coming on too fast.  Have to be put back in your lessons—­hey!”

And Green winked at the boy, and shook his finger at him.  Frank laughed in a pleased way, as he replied:  “I guess I’ll do.”

“I guess you will,” said Green, as, satisfied with his colloquy, he turned off and left the bar-room.

“Have something to drink, sir?” inquired Frank, addressing me in a bold, free way.

I shook my head.

“Here’s a newspaper,” he added.

I took the paper and sat down—­not to read, but to observe.  Two or three men soon came in, and spoke in a very familiar way to Frank, who was presently busy setting out the liquors they had called for.  Their conversation, interlarded with much that was profane and vulgar, was of horses, horse-racing, gunning, and the like, to all of which the young bar-tender lent an attentive ear, putting in a word now and then, and showing an intelligence in such matters quite beyond his age.  In the midst thereof, Mr. Slade made his appearance.  His presence caused a marked change in Frank, who retired from his place among the men, a step or two outside of the bar, and did not make a remark while his father remained.  It was plain from this, that Mr. Slade was not only aware of Frank’s dangerous precocity, but had already marked his forwardness by rebuke.

So far, all that I had seen and heard impressed me unfavorably, notwithstanding the declaration of Simon Slade, that everything about the “Sickle and Sheaf” was coming on “first-rate,” and that he was “perfectly satisfied” with his experiment.  Why, even if the man had gained, in money, fifty thousand dollars by tavern-keeping in a year, he had lost a jewel in the innocence of his boy that was beyond all valuation.  “Perfectly satisfied?” Impossible!  He was not perfectly satisfied.  How could he be?  The look thrown upon Frank when he entered the bar-room, and saw him “hale fellow, well met,” with three or four idle, profane, drinking customers, contradicted that assertion.

After supper, I took a seat in the bar-room, to see how life moved on in that place of rendezvous for the surface-population of Cedarville.  Interest enough in the characters I had met there a year before remained for me to choose this way of spending the time, instead of visiting at the house of a gentleman who had kindly invited me to pass an evening with his family.