Mr. Peter Johnson, the proprietor of the saloon, hearing voices, came to the door. He was a dirty looking negro of medium size, dressed in a shoddy suit, common enough in appearance, but with a look of cunning in his small round eyes.

“Good mornin’, gemmen,” he said rubbing his hands and rolling his eyes. “What can I do for you dis mornin’?”

“Has Jake Amsden been around here?” asked Gerald abruptly.

“No, sir,” answered Peter.

In spite of his answer there was a look in his eyes that belied his statement.

“You have seen nothing of him?” continued Gerald, sharply.

“No, sir. What for should Jake Amsden come here for, Mr. Gerald?”

“He might feel thirsty,” suggested Wentworth, “just as I am. Have you got some good whisky?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Peter briskly.

“Well, go in and get a couple of glasses,” said Wentworth.

“None for me,” commenced Gerald, but Wentworth gave him a quick look that silenced him. He saw that his companion had an object in view.

Wentworth made a motion to go in, but the negro interfered hastily. “Stay where you are, gemmen, I’ll bring out de whisky.”

“We can go in as well as not, and save you trouble,” said Wentworth, and despite Peter’s opposition the two followed him in.

They looked about scrutinizingly, but saw nothing to repay their search.

There was a counter, such as is usually found in saloons, and Mr. Johnson going behind this brought out glasses and a bottle of whisky.

“Help yourselves, gemmen!” he said, but there was an uneasy look on his face.

Wentworth poured out a small quantity of whisky and drank it down. He poured out a less quantity for Gerald, but the boy merely touched his lips to the glass.

“So you say Jake Amsden has not been here?” repeated Wentworth in a loud voice.

“No, stranger, no, on my word he hasn’t,” answered Peter earnestly. But he was immediately put to confusion by a voice from behind the bar; a voice interrupted by hiccoughs: “Who’s callin’ me? Is it you, Pete?”

“Come out here, Jake,” said Wentworth, showing no surprise. “Come out here, and have a drink with your friends.”

The invitation was accepted. Jake, who was lying behind the counter half stupefied, got up with some difficulty, and presented himself to the company a by no means attractive figure. His clothes were even more soiled than usual by contact with a floor that was seldom swept.

Wentworth poured out a glass of whisky and handed it to the inebriate, who gulped it down.

“Now you drink with me!” stuttered Jake, who was too befuddled to recognize the man who had treated him.

“All right, Jake, old boy!” said Wentworth with assumed hilarity.

He poured out for himself a teaspoonful of whisky, but did not replenish Gerald’s glass, as Amsden was not likely to notice the omission.

“Now pay for it, Jake,” prompted Wentworth.

“Never mind!” said Peter hastily, “’nother time will do!”

“Jake has money. He doesn’t need credit,” said Wentworth.

“Yes, I’ve got money,” stammered Amsden, and pulled out the wallet he had stolen from Wentworth.

“Give it to me, I’ll pay,” said Wentworth, and Jake yielded, not knowing the full meaning of what was going on.

“I take you to witness, Gerald,” said Wentworth, “this is my pocketbook, which this man Amsden stole from me last night. I’ll keep it.”

“Stop there, gemmen!” said Pete Johnson. “Dat don’t go down. Dat wallet belongs to Jake, I’ve seen him have it a dozen times. I won’t ’low no stealin’ in my saloon.”

“Be careful, Mr. Johnson,” said Wentworth sternly. “There are papers in this wallet that prove my ownership. You evidently intended to relieve Jake of the wallet when he was sleeping off the effects of the whisky. If you make a fuss I’ll have you arrested as a confederate of Jake Amsden in the robbing.”

“’Fore Hebbin, massa!” said Peter, becoming alarmed, “I didn’t know Jake stole the money.”

“Did you ever know him have so much money before?” demanded Gerald.

“Didn’t know but he might a had some money lef’ him,” said Peter shrewdly.

“Well, you know now. When this gentleman lay asleep in our cabin last night Jake stole in and took his wallet.”

“What’ll I do, gemmen? When Jake wakes up” (he had dropped on the floor, where he was breathing hard with his eyes closed) “he’ll ’cuse me of takin’ his money.”

“Tell him that the man he stole it from came here and got it,” said Gerald.

Gerald and his companion left the saloon, leaving Peter Johnson quite down in the mouth. His little game had been spoiled, for rightly supposing that Jake did not know how much money there was in the wallet, he had intended to abstract at least half the contents and appropriate it to his own use.

“Did he use much of your money, Mr. Wentworth?” asked Gerald.

“I will examine and find out,” answered his companion.

He sat down under the tree and took out the roll of bills.

“Only five dollars are missing,” he said in a tone of satisfaction.

“Have you a son?” asked Gerald. “I think I heard my father say you had one somewhere near my own age.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“My son—Victor—is seventeen. You have one advantage over him.”

“What is that, sir?”

“You are a poor man’s son.”

“Do you consider that an advantage?”

“Money is a temptation,” returned Bradley Wentworth slowly, “especially to a boy. Victor knows that I am rich—that is, moderately rich,” he added cautiously, “and he feels at liberty to spend money, often in ways that don’t do him any good. He buys clothes extravagantly, but that does no harm outside of the expense. I am sorry to say that he has contracted a taste for drink, and has given several champagne suppers to his friends. I suppose you don’t indulge yourself in that way,” Wentworth added, with a faint smile.

“I have heard of champagne, but I never tasted it,” returned Gerald.

“You are as well off without it—nay, better. I noticed you merely sipped the whisky at the place we just left.”

“Yes; I knew your object in ordering it, and did not want to arouse Peter’s suspicions, or I would not even have done that.”

“So I supposed. I approve of your moderation. I do not myself drink whisky, and indeed very little wine. Drink has no temptation for me. I wish I could say as much for Victor. I presume, however, if you were in his place, you would do the same.”

“You are quite mistaken, Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald indignantly.

“Well, perhaps so, but you can’t tell, for you have never been tried.”

“I have never been tried, but I hate liquor of all kinds, and drunkenness still more. The sight of Jake Amsden just now is enough to sicken any one.”

“True, he makes a beast of himself. I am not afraid Victor will ever sink to his level; but I should be glad if he would abstain from drinking altogether.”

Bradley Wentworth rose from his recumbent position.

“Shall we take a walk?” he said.

“I would do so, but I don’t like to leave my father alone.”

“He looked comfortable when we left the cabin.”

“Yes, but he is subject to sudden attacks.”

“And you have no doctor within a reasonable distance?”

“No; but his attacks are always the same, and I know what to do for him.”

“We will walk to the cabin, and then, if he seems well, you might venture to take a walk.”

“Very well, Mr. Wentworth.”

When they were within a few rods of his home, Gerald, impatient and always solicitous about the invalid, ran forward, leaving Mr. Wentworth to follow more slowly.

The latter was startled when Gerald, pale and agitated, emerged from the cabin and called out: “Oh, come quick, Mr. Wentworth. My father has had a serious hemorrhage, and—” he choked, unable to finish the sentence.

Wentworth hurried forward and entered the cabin. Mr. Lane lay back in his chair, gasping for breath.

He opened his eyes when he heard Gerald’s voice.

“I—am—glad—you—are—come, Gerald,” he gasped. “I think—the end has come!”

He did not utter another word, but in half an hour breathed his last!