There was the question, and it must be faced. Alfred Barton worked the
farm "on shares," and was held to a strict account by his father, not
only for half of all the grain and produce sold, but of all the horses
and cattle raised, as well as those which were bought on speculation. On
his share he managed--thanks to the niggardly system enforced in the
house--not only to gratify his vulgar taste for display, but even to lay
aside small sums from time to time. It was a convenient arrangement, but
might be annulled any time when the old man should choose, and Alfred
knew that a prompt division of the profits would be his surest guarantee
of permanence.

"I have not the money with me," he answered, desperately, after a pause,
during which he felt his father's gaze travelling over him, from head to
foot.

"Why not! You haven't spent it?" The latter question was a croaking
shriek, which seemed to forebode, while it scarcely admitted, the
possibility of such an enormity.

"I spent only four shillings, father, but--but--but the money's all
gone!"

The crooked fingers clutched the hickory staff, as if eager to wield it;
the sunken gray eyes shot forth angry fire, and the broken figure
uncurved and straightened itself with a wrathful curiosity.

"Sandy Flash robbed me on the way home," said the son, and now that the
truth was out, he seemed to pluck up a little courage.

"What, what, what!" chattered the old man, incredulously; "no lies, boy,