"Refuse to sell him liquor," returned Mr. Hargrove.
"It's my trade to sell liquor," answered Slade, boldly.
"I wish you had a more honorable calling," said Hargrove, almost mournfully.
"If you insult my father, I'll strike you down!" exclaimed Frank Slade, starting up and assuming a threatening aspect.
"I respect filial devotion, meet it where I will," calmly replied Mr. Hargrove,—"I only wish it had a better foundation in this case. I only wish the father had merited——"
I will not stain my page with the fearful oath that Frank Slade yelled, rather than uttered, as, with clenched fist, he sprung toward Mr. Hargrove. But ere he had reached the unruffled old man—who stood looking at him as one would look into the eyes of a wild beast, confident that he could not stand the gaze—a firm hand grasped his arm, and a rough voice said:
"Avast, there, young man! Touch a hair of that white head, and I'll wring your neck off."
"Lyon!" As Frank uttered the man's name, he raised his fist to strike him. A moment the clenched hand remained poised in the air; then it fell slowly to his side, and he contented himself with an oath and a vile epithet.
"You can swear to your heart's content. It will do nobody any harm but yourself," coolly replied Mr. Lyon, whom I now recognized as the person with whom I had held several conversations during previous visits.
"Thank you, Mr. Lyon," said Mr. Hargrove, "for this manly interference. It is no more than I should have expected from you."