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, no lies!” The son unbuttoned his coat, and showed his empty watch-fob. Then he gave an account of the robbery, not strictly correct in all its details, but near enough for his father to know, without discovering inaccuracies at a later day. The hickory-stick was shaken once or twice during the recital, but it did not fall upon the culprit--though this correction (so the gossip of the neighborhood ran) had more than once been administered within the previous ten years. As Alfred Barton told his story, it was hardly a case for anger on the father's part, so he took his revenge in another way. “This comes o' your races and your expensive company,” he growled, after a few incoherent sniffs and snarls; “but I don't lose my half of the horse. No, no! I'm not paid till the money's been handed over. Twenty-five dollars, remember!--and soon, that I don't lose the use of it too long. As for _your_ money and the watch, I've nothing to do with them. I've got along without a watch for eighty-five years, and I never wore as smart a coat as that in my born days. Young men understood how to save, in my time.”