“You’ve heard a good deal about his son Paul,” Sellick went on,—“a hard case, Paul. His great mistake was, he thought it his duty to be spending some of the money the old man was laying up. He couldn’t see the use of a great heap of gold stored away, and no good times at home; solid sunshine in the bank vaults, and gloom in the kitchen. So he went wild. The squire whipped him once, for calling him a fool, after he got to be twenty years old; tied him up to an apple-tree; I was going by, and heard the rumpus. ‘Call yer father a fool, will ye? when ye ought to say venerable father!’ says the old man, and lays on the lash. Every five or six strokes he’d stop and bawl out agin, ‘Call yer father a fool, will ye? when ye ought to say venerable father!’ Then, whack! whack! whack! ‘Call yer father a fool, will ye?’ over and over, till I got out of hearing. Not long after that the spendthrift son and the venerable father parted. Paul took to gambling for a living, and drinking for amusement,—business and pleasure combined. You brought the last news of him to town,—how he went to bed drunk one night at Wiley’s Basin, and set his room on fire, and was burnt to death, and you afterwards got his dog, that was singed trying to save his master. One would have thought the old man would feel a kindness towards you and the dog now, but—he’s a _poor man_, as I said. Paul’s bad end seemed to cut him up a good deal for a while, but now he’s taken home his nephew in his place. A plucky chap, the nephew! There’s courage for you! Me and you now wouldn’t want to go and live with—with such poor folks, ye know, and feed our souls on the old man’s hard corned beef and the old lady’s vinegar, not for any length of time, just in the hope of coming into their money when they die,—would we? Not that I wish to breathe a word agin the Peternots; dear me, no! Best kind of folks in their way, though mebby their way is a leetle mite peculiar. Hullo! there’s some of your folks!”