They were alike in their build and in their manner of speech. The accost and the reply sounded like reports from the same pistol. The old man was tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular—a grey edition of the son, upon whose disorderly attire he cast a glance, while speaking, with settled disgust. Robert's necktie streamed loose; his hair was uncombed; a handkerchief dangled from his pocket. He had the look of the prodigal, returned with impudence for his portion instead of repentance.
"I can't see how you are, sir, from this distance," said Robert, boldly assuming his privilege to enter.
"Are you drunk?" Jonathan asked, as Robert marched up to him.
"Give me your hand, sir."
"Give me an answer first. Are you drunk?"
Robert tried to force the complacent aspect of a mind unabashed, but felt that he made a stupid show before that clear-headed, virtuously-living old, man of iron nerves. The alternative to flying into a passion, was the looking like a fool.
"Come, father," he said, with a miserable snigger, like a yokel's smile; "here I am at last. I don't say, kill the fatted calf, and take a lesson from Scripture, but give me your hand. I've done no man harm but myself- -damned if I've done a mean thing anywhere! and there's no shame to you in shaking your son's hand after a long absence."
Jonathan Eccles kept both hands firmly in his pockets.
"Are you drunk?" he repeated.
Robert controlled himself to answer, "I'm not."