It was the last time I saw my father; a year later he was dead; and ten years were to pass before I saw my mother again. Before this--to look ahead for a second--some enterprising Toronto friend, with evangelical tact, wrote to my father ... “your son is keeping a tavern,” and my father, calling my brother into his study where he laid all problems before his God with prayer, told him in a broken voice and with tears in his eyes: “He is lost; his soul is lost. Algie has gone to--Hell!”... My vision faded. My broad-shouldered friend and his little rat-faced companion stood with their elbows on the bar. I saw six small glasses and a big dark bottle. Three of the former were filled to the brim with neat rye whisky, the other three, “the chasers” as they were called, held soda-water. “Drink hearty,” rasped Bingham’s grating voice, as he tossed down his liquor at a gulp, Kay doing the same, then swallowing the soda-water. I moved to the swing-doors. I had never touched spirits, and loathed the mere smell of them. I cannot pretend that any principle was involved; it was simply that the mere idea of swallowing raw whisky gave me nausea. I saw Kay give me a quick look. “He’ll be offended if you don’t take something,” it said plainly. I was, besides, familiar with the customs of the country, at any rate in theory. “Have something else,” invited Bingham, “if you don’t like it straight.” I shook my head, mumbling something about it’s being too early in the day, and I shall never forget the look that came into that cunning little face. But he was not offended. He put his hand on Kay’s arm. “Now, see here,” he said with seriousness, “that’s dead right. That’s good business every time. Never drink yourselves, and you’ll make it a success. Your partner’s got the right idea, and I tell you straight: never touch a drop of liquor till after closing hours. You’ll be asked to drink all day long. Everybody will want to drink with the new management. Every customer that walks in will say ‘What’s yours?’ before you even know his name. Now, see here, boys, listen to me--you _can’t_ do it! You’ll be blind to the world before eleven o’clock. _I_ tell you, and I _know_!” “How are you to refuse?” asked Kay. “I’ll give you a tip: drink tea!” “Tea!” “Have your bottle of tea. Tell your bar-tenders. It’s the same colour as rye whisky. No one’ll ever know. The boss can always have his own private bottle. Well, yours is tea. See?” And he winked with a leer like some intelligent reptile. We shook hands, as he saw us into the street. “You’ll take a cheque, I suppose?” I heard Kay say just before we moved off. “A marked cheque, yes,” was the reply. The phrase meant that the bank marked the cheque as good for the amount. “It’s all fixed then,” returned Kay. “All fixed,” said Bingham, and the swing-doors closed upon his unpleasant face as we went out into the street. CHAPTER VII