“Well, I say, you’re com—comin’ it raither strong, ain’t you, young feller?” said a voice at his elbow.
He looked up hastily, and saw a blear-eyed youth in a state of drivelling intoxication, staring at him with the expression of an idiot.
“That’s no business of yours,” replied Sam Twitter, sharply.
“Well, thash true, ’tain’t no b–busnish o’ mine. I—I’m pretty far gone m’self, I allow; but I ain’t quite got the l–length o’ drinkin’ in a p–public ’ouse wi’ th’ bl–blue ribb’n on.”
The fallen lad glanced at his breast. There it was,—forgotten, desecrated! He tore it fiercely from his button-hole, amid the laughter of the bystanders—most of whom were women of the lowest grade—and dashed it on the floor.
“Thash right.—You’re a berrer feller than I took you for,” said the sot at his elbow.
To avoid further attention Sammy took his beer into a dark corner and was quickly forgotten.
He had not been seated more than a few minutes when the door opened, and a man with a mild, gentle, yet manly face entered.
“Have a glass, ol’ feller?” said the sot, the instant he caught sight of him.
“Thank you, no—not to-day,” replied John Seaward, for it was our city missionary on what he sometimes called a fishing excursion—fishing for men! “I have come to give you a glass to-day, friends.”