"He's got just two faults, I always say: he's too modest by far and he's lazy—won't work."
"He doesn't have to work. His old man has plenty of coin, hasn't he?"
"Yes, and he'll keep it, too. Heartless old wretch. Mr.—What's your name, again?"
"Locke."
"Mr. Locke." The speaker stared mournfully at his companion. "D'you know what that unnatural parent did?"
"No."
"He let his only son and heir go to jail."
Mr. Jefferson Locke, of St. Louis, started; his wandering, watchful eyes flew back to the speaker.
"What! Jail?"
"That's what I remarked. He allowed his own flesh and blood to languish in a loathsome cell."