This seemed such an unworthy objection to Mr. Tucker that he had allowed the matter to drop. But the lecture and the rain combined had proven disastrous to business. Colonel Sharp had dropped in for his usual nightcap, a carefully-measured three fingers; he had favoured Mr. Tucker with a Latin quotation, and Mr. Tucker had favoured him with the opinion that they were likely to have a spell of weather. Next, a belated farmer had stopped to have a jug filled with apple brandy; he had ventured a few occult observations on the condition of the crops, and had informed Mr. Tucker that it was the first rainy tenth of June in two years, and that up to four o'clock in the afternoon it had been the hottest tenth of June in five years; then he had gathered his jug of brandy up under his arm, and had departed into the night; and the innkeeper, rotund and grey, with his two sparse wisps of hair carefully plastered back of his ears, and looking not unlike an aged and degenerate cupid, a cupid, who through some secret grief had taken to drink, dozed in solitude before his bar. Suddenly, he was aroused by hearing a step on the brick pavement outside the door. A man seemed to pause there irresolutely; then a hand was placed upon the latch, the door swung slowly open, and Truman Rogers, with his son at his side, stood revealed upon the threshold. “Come in, man, come in,” cried Mr. Tucker. Rogers pulled the door to after him, and moved into the room; his clothes were wet and steaming, the wide brim of his hat drooped, hiding his face, and in the half light of the dingy lamps he looked more like a gaunt shadow than a living man. The boy at his side kept fast hold of his hand; he, too, was shivering under the drag of his clammy garments, but he seemed to exercise a certain protecting care toward his father, for his glance was full of childish tenderness, not unmixed with concern. “You'd better have a dish of liquor right now,” said Mr. Tucker; he added hospitably: “It's on the house, man; I knew your father well.” The innkeeper hurried behind his bar, and the Californian poured himself a full glass from the bottle he pushed toward him. “Here's how,” he said, and he drained it at a single swallow. Mr. Tucker emptied a dash of spirits into a second glass and added a generous portion of water; this he handed to the child, saying, “Here, sonny, this will warm you up inside.” The child drank the mixture with a wry face. Mr. Tucker laughed. “Takes right hold, don't it? Well, it's a good friend, but a poor master,” and he thoughtfully filled a third glass for himself. “Here's to you, and me, and all of us,” he said, smiling genially. Rogers seated himself in the chair the innkeeper had vacated; the child stole quietly to his side. “I reckon you didn't find many people you knew here about,” observed Mr. Tucker, as he returned his glass to the bar.