Frank, nursing his sore heart, the wounds of which he could not bear to have touched by the most friendly hand, compressed his lips together, and made no reply.
"So you have been really gambling—have you?" added the old man, in tones of suppressed emotion.
"That's my business," said Frank, curtly.
He regretted the undutiful words the instant they escaped his lips. But he was too proud to ask pardon for them. As for the old man, he stood silent for a long time, looking down at the boy, who looked not up again at him. And there was a tremor in his lip, and a dilatation in his eye, which at length grew misty with a tear that gathered, but did not fall. And with a sigh, he turned away.
"Well, be it so!" Frank heard him say, as if to himself. "I thought—I hoped—but no matter."
He thought—he hoped—what? That his early faith in love and friendship, which had so long been dead, might be raised to life again by this boy, for whom he had conceived so singular a liking, and who, like all the rest, proved ungrateful and unworthy when the hour of trial came.
Alas! such is the result of our transgressions. Once having offended our own souls, we are quick to offend others. And vice makes us irritable, ungenerous, unjust. And not a crime can be committed, but its evil consequences follow, not the author of it only, but also the innocent, upon whom its blighting shadow falls.
"Frank, if you want some fun!" said an eager whisper, with a promise of mischief in it; a hand at the same time twitching the boy's coat.
It was Ned Ellis, who had come for him, and was hastening away again. Frank followed—all too ready for any enterprise that would bring the balm of forgetfulness to his hurt mind.
The boys entered the hold of the vessel, where, in the hush and obscurity, a group of their companions; stood or sat, among the barrels and boxes, still as statues, until they recognized the new comers.