"Hope! Don't hope! Sign the pledge; swear on the Holy Bible; go down on your knees, every morning and every night, and pray that Almighty God will help you, and save you from the curse. Don't trifle with it, Philip. Be in earnest, and when you feel weak, commend yourself to God, and think of Edward Farringford."
He covered his face with his hands again, and wept so bitterly, that the little table danced under the convulsive agony which shook his frame.
"Look at me, Philip!" said he, raising his head again. "Behold the wreck of a man! If there had been no whiskey in the world, or if I had never tasted it, I could have welcomed you to the most elegant mansion in St. Louis. I could have pointed you to a dozen steamers, on the Missouri and Mississippi, which were all mine. I could have presented you to my wife, the most beautiful and accomplished woman in the city, now driven out from my presence. More than this, Philip, I could have pointed you to my boy, my son, my only child, who perished in the cold waters of the Missouri, because I was too drunk to save him!"
I need not say how startled, how thrilled I was by this agonizing narrative. The bar-room was crowded, and noisy with the violent debates of excited politicians, and the gabble of men warmed by their cups into unusual hilarity, so that no one appeared to notice Farringford, though he uttered his impressive warnings in a loud tone. But I was too much moved and thrilled myself to heed what others said or did. The toper wept, and then tried to shake off the remembrance of the past.
"Where was your son lost, Mr. Farringford?" I asked, choking with emotion.
"On the upper Missouri. He was a child under three. His name was Philip, like yours. He was named after my brother, who died ten years ago. Enough of this. I am almost crazy When I think of it."
The broken-down toper was my father!