“It’s a bad place, I know,” replied Lyon, speaking out boldly, “and we all know it.  But habit, Mr. Hargrove—­habit.  That’s the cursed thing!  If the bar-rooms were all shut up, there would be another story to tell.  Get us the Maine law, and there will be some chance for us.”

“Why don’t you vote the temperance ticket?” asked Mr. Hargrove.

“Why did I? you’d better ask,” said Lyon.

“I thought you voted against us.”

“Not I. Ain’t quite so blind to my own interest as that.  And, if the truth were known, I should not at all wonder if every man in this room, except Slade and his son, voted on your side of the house.”

“It’s a little strange, then,” said Mr. Hargrove, “that with the drinking men on our side, we failed to secure the election.”

“You must blame that on your moderate men, who see no danger and go blind with their party,” answered Lyon.  “We have looked the evil in the face, and know its direful quality.”

“Come!  I would like to talk with you, Mr. Lyon.”

Mr. Hargrove, his son, and Mr. Lyon went out together.  As they left the room, Frank Slade said: 

“What a cursed liar and hypocrite he is!”

“Who?” was asked.

“Why, Lyon,” answered Frank, boldly.

“You’d better say that to his face.”

“It wouldn’t be good for him,” remarked one of the company.

At this Frank started to his feet, stalked about the room, and put on all the disgusting airs of a drunken braggart.  Even his father saw the ridiculous figure he cut, and growled out: 

“There, Frank, that’ll do.  Don’t make a miserable fool of yourself!”

At which Frank retorted, with so much of insolence that his father flew into a towering passion, and ordered him to leave the bar-room.

“You can go out yourself if you don’t like the company.  I’m very well satisfied,” answered Frank.

“Leave this room, you impudent young scoundrel!”

“Can’t go, my amiable friend,” said Frank, with a cool self-possession that maddened his father, who got up hastily, and moved across the bar-room to the place where he was standing.

“Go out, I tell you!” Slade spoke resolutely.

“Would be happy to oblige you,” Frank said, in a taunting voice; “but, ’pon my word, it isn’t at all convenient.”

Half intoxicated as he was, and already nearly blind with passion, Slade lifted his hand to strike his son.  And the blow would have fallen had not some one caught his arm, and held him back from the meditated violence.  Even the debased visitors of this bar-room could not stand by and see nature outraged in a bloody strife between father and son; for it was plain from the face and quickly assumed attitude of Frank, that if his father had laid his hand upon him, he would have struck him in return.

I could not remain to hear the awful imprecations that father and son, in their impotent rage, called down from heaven upon each other’s heads.  It was the most shocking exhibition of depraved human nature that I had ever seen.  And so I left the bar-room, glad to escape from its stifling atmosphere and revolting scenes.