their money on them. Put the screws to Bacon, and his farm will drop
into my hands like a ripe cherry."

"You can hardly call Bacon a drunkard. You never see him staggering
about, nor lounging in bar-rooms."

"Do you remember his farm seven years ago?"

"Perfectly well."

"Look at it now."

"There's a great difference, certainly."

"Isn't there! What's the reason of this?"

"Intemperance, I suppose."

"Drunkenness!" said the tavern-keeper. "That is the right word. He
don't spend much in bar-rooms, but look over his store bill and
you'll find rum a large item."

"Poor Bacon! He's a good sort of a man," remarked the lawyer. "I
can't help feeling sorry for him. He's his own worst enemy."

"I want you to push this matter through in the quickest possible
time," said Dyer, in a sharp, firm voice.

"Very well. It shall be done. I know my business."