IN WHICH PHIL TAKES HIS FATHER TO HIS NEW HOME.
My father! I had found him; but the finding of him in such a miserable, degraded, besotted being as he who was before me seemed to be the greatest mishap, the most overwhelming misfortune, that could possibly have overtaken me. He was the first white man I had ever seen really intoxicated. I was mortified and disheartened as I looked at his pale, thin face, and regarded his trembling limbs.
What should I do? I could not tell him that I was his son. I could not throw myself into his arms and weep tears of joy, as I had imagined the impressive scene, in case I should ever find either of my parents. I wanted to weep; I wanted to give myself up to a transport of grief, if not despair, as I realized the terrible truth that the degraded being before me was my father.
"Philip, I've told you more than I ever uttered before. You looked into my face, and seemed so interested that I was tempted to tell more than I intended," said he, wiping away with his coat sleeve the tears that stained his sunken cheeks. "No matter; we will be jolly now. I can get another drink in a cheap grog-shop for the half dime I have in my pocket."
To my surprise he laughed as easily as he had wept, and shook off, with astonishing facility, the burden which had weighed him down. He rose from his chair, and tottered towards the door. I followed him out into the street.
"Where are you going now?" I asked.
"Going to get a cheap drink," he replied, with a kind of chuckle. "I shall be all right then; and we'll go and look for Lynch."
"Don't drink any more to-night, Mr. Farringford," I pleaded, taking his arm.
"I must!" said he, vehemently. "I might as well tell you not to eat after you had been without food for a week, as you tell me not to drink. I must have whiskey, or die."
"Then die!" I added, using his own words.