Bertie uttered a cry as though he had been shot. The awful words were the most dreadful he had ever heard. He, tried to run away, but he staggered, and looked so pale the man who had offered him the tobacco, thought he would fall.
"Don't mind him," Alick said to Bertie, "he's been to his bottle too often, and didn't know what he was talking of."
About fifteen minutes later, Mr. Curtis found his son, sitting on a stone near the cellar, crying and sobbing as if his heart would break.
It was a very unusual thing for Bertie to cry; and of course his papa was greatly pained to see him in such distress. He tried to soothe the child and find out what had troubled him. But Bertie could scarcely speak at all for his sobs. He could only point to the cellar, and say, in broken words—"Wicked—man—I'm—afraid—God—wont—let—him—live."
Mr. Curtis left him and walked toward the cellar, where he saw a sight which explained his son's grief.
One of the masons was just in the act of stooping down for a black bottle which he held to his mouth, when his companion saw him.
"Hold there," he said, throwing down his hammer. "You've been at it too often already."
The drunkard threw the empty bottle right in the other mason's face, uttering the most terrible oaths.
"You'd better be careful; or you'll lose the best job you ever had," urged the sober man. "You frightened the Squire's little boy till I thought he would faint. If he tells his father how you cursed his mother, you'll be done for. So you'd better quit drinking till this job is over."
