In fact, he had himself found sorry trouble in getting home from the tavern, familiar as the path was to him, on account of the intense darkness.
“Well, I guess it’ll do to-morrow morning,” he said. “I must have it then, for I’ve promised to pay Jones a dollar on account. I said I would, and I’ve got to keep my promise. Do you hear that, you young rascal?”
“Yes, I hear it.”
“Then mind you don’t forget it. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
And the fisherman staggered into the adjoining room, and, without taking the trouble of removing his garments, threw himself on the bed and in five minutes was breathing loud in a drunken stupor.
Mrs. Trafton did not immediately go to bed. She was troubled in mind, for she foresaw that there was only a truce and not a cessation of hostilities.
In the morning her husband would renew his demand upon Robert, and, should the latter continue to refuse to comply, she was afraid there would be violence.
When her husband’s heavy breathing showed that he was insensible to anything that was said, she began.
“I don’t know but you’d better give up that money to your uncle,” she said.
“How can you advise me to do that, aunt?” asked Robert in surprise.