NIGHT THE NINTH.

A fearful consummation.

Neither Slade nor his son was present at the breakfast-table on the next morning.  As for myself, I did not eat with much appetite.  Whether this defect arose from the state of my mind, or the state of the food set before me, I did not stop to inquire; but left the stifling, offensive atmosphere of the dining-room in a very few moments after entering that usually attractive place for a hungry man.

A few early drinkers were already in the bar-room—­men with shattered nerves and cadaverous faces, who could not begin the day’s work without the stimulus of brandy or whisky.  They came in, with gliding footsteps, asked for what they wanted in low voices, drank in silence, and departed.  It was a melancholy sight to look upon.

About nine o’clock the landlord made his appearance.  He, too, came gliding into the bar-room, and his first act was to seize upon a brandy decanter, pour out nearly half a pint of the fiery liquid, and drink it off.  How badly his hand shook—­so badly that he spilled the brandy both in pouring it out and in lifting the glass to his lips!  What a shattered wreck he was!  He looked really worse now than he did on the day before, when drink gave an artificial vitality to his system, a tension to his muscles, and light to his countenance.  The miller of ten years ago, and the tavern-keeper of today!  Who could have identified them as one?

Slade was turning from the bar, when a man? came in.  I noticed an instant change in the landlord’s countenance.  He looked startled; almost frightened.  The man drew a small package from his pocket, and after selecting a paper therefrom, presented it to Slade, who received it with a nervous reluctance, opened, and let his eye fall upon the writing within.  I was observing him closely at the time, and saw his countenance flush deeply.  In a moment or two it became pale again—­paler even than before.

“Very well—­all right.  I’ll attend to it,” said the landlord, trying to recover himself, yet swallowing with every sentence.

The man who was no other than a sheriff’s deputy, and who gave him a sober, professional look, then went out with a firm step, and an air of importance.  As he passed through the outer door, Slade retired from the bar-room.

“Trouble coming,” I heard the bar-keeper remark, speaking partly to himself and partly with the view, as was evident from his manner, of leading me to question him.  But this I did not feel that it was right to do.

“Got the sheriff on him at last,” added the bar-keeper.

“What’s the matter, Bill?” inquired a man who now came in with a bustling, important air, and leaned familiarly over the bar.  “Who was Jenkins after?”

“The old man,” replied the bar-keeper, in a voice that showed pleasure rather than regret.

“No!”