“Oh, no,” said Matthew, incredulously.  “Frank wouldn’t do an outrageous thing like that.  Lightfoot won’t be in a condition to drive for a month to come.”

“I don’t care.  She’s out now; and the way she was putting it down when I saw her, would have made a locomotive look cloudy.”

“Where did he get her?” was inquired.

“She’s been in the six-acre field, over by Mason’s Bridge, for the last week or so,” Matthew answered.  “Well; all I have to say,” he added, “is that Frank ought to be slung up and well horse-whipped.  I never saw such a young rascal.  He cares for no good, and fears no evil.  He’s the worst boy I ever saw.”

“It would hardly do for you to call him a boy to his face,” said one of the men, laughing.

“I don’t have much to say to him in any way,” replied Matthew, “for I know very well that if we ever do get into a regular quarrel, there’ll be a hard time of it.  The same house will not hold us afterward—­that’s certain.  So I steer clear of the young reprobate.”

“I wonder his father don’t put him to some business,” was remarked.  “The idle life he now leads will be his ruin.”

“He was behind the bar for a year or two.”

“Yes; and was smart at mixing a glass—­but—­”

“Was himself becoming too good a customer?”

“Precisely.  He got drunk as a fool before reaching his fifteenth year.”

“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, involuntarily.

“It’s true, sir,” said the last speaker, turning to me, “I never saw anything like it.  And this wasn’t all bar-room talk, which, as you may know, isn’t the most refined and virtuous in the world.  I wouldn’t like my son to hear much of it.  Frank was always an eager listener to everything that was said, and in a very short time became an adept in slang and profanity.  I’m no saint myself; but it’s often made my blood run cold to hear him swear.”

“I pity his mother,” said I; for my thought turned naturally to Mrs. Slade.

“You may well do that,” was answered.  “I doubt if Cedarville holds a sadder heart.  It was a dark day for her, let me tell you, when Simon Slade sold his mill and built this tavern.  She was opposed to it at the beginning.”

“I have inferred as much.”

“I know it,” said the man.  “My wife has been intimate with her for years.  Indeed, they have always been like sisters.  I remember very well her coming to our house, about the time the mill was sold, and crying about it as if her heart would break.  She saw nothing but sorrow and trouble ahead.  Tavern-keeping she had always regarded as a low business, and the change from a respectable miller to a lazy tavern-keeper, as she expressed it, was presented to her mind as something disgraceful.  I remember, very well, trying to argue the point with her—­assuming that it was quite as respectable to keep tavern as to do anything else; but I might as well have talked to the wind.  She was always a pleasant, hopeful, cheerful woman before that time, but, really, I don’t think I’ve seen a true smile on her face since.”