It seems very strange to me, and I dare say it has seemed so to others, that some men, when they have the greatest work of their lifetime in hand, or are pressed down by the heaviest responsibility that ever weighed upon them, choose this very time to get intoxicated. My father had certainly done so. With more than two thirds of his worldly wealth in his pocket, he had taken to drinking whiskey—a thing he had not done before for at least a year. Half of the hour we had to wait had passed away, and my poor father made himself very ridiculous. I had never felt so bad before in my life.
“Wolf, my boy, I forgot to get my tobacco when I was up in town,” said he, handing me a quarter. “Run up to that store next to the hotel, and get me half a pound of his best plug.”
I did not want to leave him, but I could not disobey without making a terrible scene. I went as fast as my legs would carry me, and returned out of breath with running. My father had drunk nothing during my absence, and I was startled when I beheld his changed appearance on my return. He was deadly pale, and was trembling with emotion. He was searching his pockets, and gazing nervously into every hole and corner in the engine-room, where I found him.
“What is the matter, father?” I asked, alarmed at his appearance.
“I have lost my pocket-book, Wolf,” gasped he, in an awful and impressive whisper.
“Lost it!” I exclaimed, almost paralyzed by the intelligence.
“Nonsense, Ralph!” added Christy, with a forced laugh. “You can’t have lost it, if you had it when you came here.”
“I did have it; I know I did. I felt it in my pocket after I came on board.”
“Then it must be in your pocket now. You haven’t been out of the engine-room since you came,” persisted Christy.
I helped my father search his pockets; but the pocket-book was certainly gone.