“Who is that old gentleman who came in just now?” I inquired of the person who thus commented on the incident which had just occurred.

“Mr. Hargrove is his name.”

“And that was his son?”

“Yes; and I’m only sorry he doesn’t possess a little more spirit.”

“How old is he?”

“About twenty.”

“Not of legal age, then?”

“He’s old enough to be his own master.”

“The law says differently,” I suggested.

In answer, the young man cursed the law, snapping his fingers in its imaginary face as he did so.

“At least you will admit,” said I, “that Edward Hargrove, in the use of a liberty to go where he pleases, and do what he pleases, exhibits but small discretion.”

“I will admit no such thing.  What harm is there, I would like to know, in a social little game such as we were playing?  There were no stakes—­we were not gambling.”

I pointed to the half-emptied glass of ale left by young Hargrove.

“Oh! oh!” half sneered, half laughed a man, twice the age of the one I had addressed, who sat near by, listening to our conversation.  I looked at him for a moment, and then said: 

“The great danger lies there, without doubt.  If it were only a glass of ale and a game of dominoes—­but it doesn’t stop there, and well the young man’s father knows it.”

“Perhaps he does,” was answered.  “I remember him in his younger days; and a pretty high boy he was.  He didn’t stop at a glass of ale and a game of dominoes; not he!  I’ve seen him as drunk as a lord many a time; and many a time at a horse-race, or cock-fight, betting with the bravest.  I was only a boy, though a pretty old boy; but I can tell you, Hargrove was no saint.”

“I wonder not, then, that he is so anxious for his son,” was my remark.  “He knows well the lurking dangers in the path he seems inclined to enter.”

“I don’t see that they have done him much harm.  He sowed his wild oats—­then got married, and settled down into a good, substantial citizen.  A little too religious and pharisaical, I always thought; but upright in his dealings.  He had his pleasures in early life, as was befitting the season of youth—­why not let his son taste of the same agreeable fruit?  He’s wrong, sir—­wrong!  And I’ve said as much to Ned.  I only wish the boy had shown the right spunk this evening, and told the old man to go home about his business.”

“So do I,” chimed in the young disciple in this bad school.  “It’s what I’d say to my old man, in double quick time, if he was to come hunting after me.”

“He knows better than to do that,” said the other, in a way that let me deeper into the young man’s character.

“Indeed he does.  He’s tried his hand on me once or twice during the last year, but found it wouldn’t do, no how; Tom Peters is out of his leading-strings.”

“And can drink his glass with any one, and not be a grain the worse for it.”