“We can't go without money,” he said, in a troubled voice.
“Couldn't we walk?”
“It's too far, and I'm not strong.”
“I could walk it, ef I took time enough,” asserted Abner, positively. “Hello! there's dad!”
Herbert looked up, and, following Abner's glance, saw a man approaching the farmhouse. Mr. Barton—for it was he—was a tall man, shabbily attired, his head crowned with a battered hat, whose gait indicated a little uncertainty, and betrayed some difficulty about the maintenance of his equilibrium.
“Is that your father?” asked Herbert.
“It's the old man, sure enough. He's about half full.”
“What's that?”
“He's been drinkin', as usual; but he didn't drink enough to make him tight. Guess his funds give out.”
Herbert was rather shocked at Abner's want of respect in speaking of his father, but even to him Mr. Barton hardly seemed like a man who could command a son's respect.