Ten Nights in a Bar Room. T. S. Arthur

room, going passively, almost meekly out, led by that little child—I could not, for a time, turn my thoughts from the image thereof! And then thought bore me to the wretched home, back to which the gentle, loving child had taken her father, and my heart grew faint in me as imagination busied itself with all the misery there.

      And Willy Hammond. The little that I had heard and seen of him greatly interested me in his favor. Ah! upon what dangerous ground was he treading. How many pitfalls awaited his feet—how near they were to the brink of a fearful precipice, down which to fall was certain destruction. How beautiful had been his life-promise! How fair the opening day of his existence! Alas! the clouds were gathering already, and the low rumble of the distant thunder presaged the coming of a fearful tempest. Was there none to warn him of the danger? Alas! all might now come too late, for so few who enter the path in which his steps were treading will hearken to friendly counsel, or heed the solemn warning. Where was he now? This question recurred over and over again. He had left the bar-room with Judge Lyman and Green early in the evening, and had not made his appearance since. Who and what was Green? And Judge Lyman, was he a man of principle? One with whom it was safe to trust a youth like Willy Hammond?

      While I mused thus, the bar-room door opened, and a man past the prime of life, with a somewhat florid face, which gave a strong relief to the gray, almost white hair that, suffered to grow freely, was pushed back, and lay in heavy masses on his coat collar, entered with a hasty step. He was almost venerable in appearance; yet there was in his dark, quick eyes the brightness of unquenched loves, the fires of which were kindled at the altars of selfishness and sensuality. This I saw at a glance. There was a look of concern on his face, as he threw his eyes around the bar-room; and he seemed disappointed, I thought, at finding it empty.

      “Is Simon Slade here?”

      As I answered in the negative, Mrs. Slade entered through the door that opened from the yard, and stood behind the counter.

      “Ah, Mrs. Slade! Good evening, madam!” he said.

      “Good evening, Judge Hammond.”

      “Is your husband at home?”

      “I believe he is,” answered Mrs. Slade. “I think he is somewhere about the house.”

      “Ask him to step here, will you?”

      Mrs. Slade went out. Nearly five minutes went by, during which time Judge Hammond paced the floor of the bar-room uneasily. Then the landlord made his appearance. The free, open, manly, self-satisfied expression of his countenance, which I had remarked on alighting from the stage in the afternoon, was gone. I noticed at once the change, for it was striking. He did not look steadily into the face of Judge Hammond, who asked him, in a low voice, if his son had been there during the evening.

      “He was here,” said Slade.

      “When?”

      “He came in some time after dark and stayed, maybe, an hour.”

      “And hasn’t been here since?”

      “It’s nearly two hours since he left the bar-room,” replied the landlord.

      Judge Hammond seemed perplexed. There was a degree of evasion in Slade’s manner that he could hardly help noticing. To me it was all apparent, for I had lively suspicions that made my observation acute.

      Judge Hammond crossed his arms behind him, and took three or four strides about the floor.

      “Was Judge Lyman here to-night?” he then asked.

      “He was,” answered Slade.

      “Did he and Willy go out together?”

      The question seemed an unexpected one for the landlord. Slade appeared slightly confused, and did not answer promptly.

      “I—I rather think they did,” he said, after a brief hesitation.

      “Ah, well! Perhaps he is at Judge Lyman’s. I will call over there.”

      And Judge Hammond left the bar-room.

      “Would you like to retire, sir?” said the landlord, now turning to me, with a forced smile—I saw that it was forced.

      “If you please,” I answered.

      He lit a candle and conducted me to my room, where, overwearied with the day’s exertion, I soon fell asleep, and did not awake until the sun was shining brightly into my windows.

      I remained at the village a portion of the day, but saw nothing of the parties in whom the incidents of the previous evening had awakened a lively interest. At four o’clock I left in the stage, and did not visit Cedarville again for a year.