“He couldn’t help himself. If he hadn’t given it up, I should have put a bullet through him.”
“I’m glad you didn’t have to do that; on the whole, though, I shouldn’t have cared much if you had shot him,” added my father, putting his hand upon the pocket-book to assure himself of its present safety. “I wouldn’t have believed Christy could be guilty of such a mean trick. But it was my fault, Wolf. You saw how it was done, and it has been a lesson to me which I shall never forget.”
My father sighed heavily as he thought of the circumstances, and I fancy he promised himself then never again to touch whiskey.
“Did Christy open the pocket-book?” he asked, after a silence of some minutes.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him open it, and I don’t know when he could have had time to do so,” I replied.
“It don’t look as though it had been touched,” said he, taking the pocket-book from his pocket, and proceeding to open it.
“I guess it is all right, father,” I added.
“All right!” gasped he. “There is not a single dollar in it!”
My father groaned in bitterness of spirit. I looked into the open pocket-book. The money had all been taken from it!