This man, who walked with such an unsteady gait, was Tom Soher. Frank took the trouble to follow him home. He feared for his safety, accidents are so common with people in his state. He set his conscience at ease by seeing the tottering figure enter the house of the "Prenoms."
He pitied this slave to intemperance. He shuddered at the immense per cent. of his countrymen who were like this man.
How had Tom Soher happened to be lying before the threshold of "Les Marches?" We shall see.
That same evening, he was with a few of his sort, drinking at the "Forest Arms." He was more than half-intoxicated, when, without a word, he left the bar-room.
"Where are you going?" shouted his comrades.
Tom did not heed their talk, but directed his steps towards uncle Rougeant's farm-house.
He opened the door, walked straight in, and seated himself in a chair near the long bare table, without saying a word to his uncle.
The latter was in a dreadful state of mental excitement. He was walking up and down the room with his hands thrust deeply into his trousers' pockets, uttering execrations, blaming everyone and everything. He was so occupied with his ravings that he only cast a glance at his nephew, who stood, or rather sat, wondering what the dickens his uncle was about.
"Ah, this generation," said the farmer, "this generation is a mass of spoilt and pampered dolls"--he was thinking of his daughter--"they only think about running here and there; paying visits to friends, taking tea with cousins, or walks with dressed-up mashers.
"They do not care if they leave a poor old devil"--the appellation was appropriate enough--"all alone, with not even a dog to keep him company or a cat which he could kick; off they go, dressed in the garments for which you have paid out of your own pockets; ay, and for which you have toiled and perspired----"
"You're quite right, uncle," came from Tom.
The farmer gave a sudden start. He had altogether forgotten his nephew's presence. He went on:--"People are as proud as if they were all of blood royal. Even the poorest women, one sees pass in the afternoon with perambulators in which sleeps some little urchin who, mayhap, is brought up nearly all on the charity of saving people like me.