The “vial of wrath” was empty. My father looked at me—looked uglier than I had ever seen him look before. He held it over the glass, and inverted it. My work had been thoroughly accomplished, and hardly a drop of the fiery fluid answered the summons to appear. My father looked at me again. His lips were compressed, and his eyes snapped with anger.
“All gone—is it?” laughed the sheriff. “Well, no matter; I can get along without it.”
“We’ll take some at the bar,” said my father, as the bell rang to “slow” her.
When the boat was fast to the wharf, they went to the bar and drank together. Somehow, it seemed to me that all my calculations were failing on that day; but still I hoped to accomplish something by the deed I had done. Mr. Mortimer went on shore, and my father returned to the engine-room. I hoped he would be satisfied with the dram he had taken, and that I should escape the consequences of his anger. The bell rang, and the boat started again.
“Wolf, did you empty that bottle?” asked my father, sternly.
“Yes, sir, I did,” I replied, gently, but firmly.
“What did you do that for?”
“I thought it was best not to have the liquor here,” I answered, with no little trepidation.
“Best!” exclaimed he. “Who made you a keeper over me?”
I did not dare to say anything. I held my peace, resolved to endure the storm in silence, lest some disrespectful word should escape my lips. My father was very angry, and I feared that, under the influence of the liquor, he would do violence to me; but he did not.