I looked about me for a place to dine, but failed, at first, in my quest. Down toward the docks there were brighter lights and correspondingly deeper darknesses. I went along a broad thoroughfare, turned down a narrower one until I found myself among lanes and alleys, jostled by drunken sailors and accosted by wanton women, as they staggered, blinking, from the brightly lighted saloons. My finer sensibilities rose and protested within me, but I had no choice. If I wished to quell my craving for food, there was nothing left for me to do but to brave the foul air and the rough element of one of these sawdust-floored, glass-ornamented whisky palaces, where a snack and a glass of ale, at least, could be purchased. I looked about me and pushed into what seemed the least disreputable one of its kind. I made through the haze of foul air and tobacco smoke to the counter, and stood idly by until the bar-tender should find it convenient to wait upon me. The place was crowded with sea-faring men and the human sediment that is found in and around the docks of all shipping cities; it resounded with a babel of coarse, discordant voices. The greater part of this coterie was gathered round a huge individual, with enormous hands and feet, a stubbly, blue chin,--set, round and aggressive; a nose with a broken bridge spoiled the balance of his podgy face. He had beady eyes and a big, ugly mouth with stained, irregular teeth. From time to time, he laughed boisterously, and his laugh had an echo of hell in it. He and his followers appeared to be enjoying some good joke. But whenever he spoke every one else became silent. Each coarse jest he mouthed was laughed at long and uproariously. He had a hold on his fellows. Even I was fascinated; but it was by the great similarity of some of the mannerisms of this uncouth man to those I had observed in the lower brute creation. My attention was withdrawn from him, however, by the sound of the rattling of tin cans in another corner which was partly partitioned from the main bar-room. I followed the new sound. A tattered individual was seated there, his feet among a cluster of pots and pans all strung together. His head was in his hands and his red-bearded face was a study of dejection and misery. There was something strangely familiar in the appearance of the man. Suddenly I remembered, and I laughed. I went over and sat down opposite him, setting my golf clubs by my side. He ignored my arriving. That same old trick of his! "Donald,--Donald Robertson!" I exclaimed, laughing again. Still he did not look across. Suddenly he spoke, and in a voice that knew neither hope nor gladness. "Ye laugh,--ye name me by my Christian name,--but ye don't say, 'Donald, will ye taste?'" I leaned over and pulled his hands away from his head. He flopped forward, then glared at me. His eyes opened wide. "It's,--it's you,--is it? The second son come to me in my hour o' trial."