H. Bedford-Jones

“ You hate all the world, including yourself, and always did. You're a narrow-minded old man, and I thank heaven daily that I've mighty little of your mean disposition in me. What I am, I owe to mother—and the same with Eli. ”

“ He's an Irish chap, came up from the Havana with us. He says that the Irish believe hell to be a cold place, not a hot one—he'd have been confirmed in the belief if he'd come home with me. Yes, this is a grand reception and I appreciate it. Let's have Eli's letter, eh? Trot it out, and then I'll be running along on my way.”
The older man had a weapon, and a more terrible one, which he did not disdain to use.
“While you're in this house,” he said in a cold voice, biting off his words, “ye'll not fail in the duty ye owe the man who begat ye, Richard. ”

“ Take it and go, find Eli, and tell him that—that I've repented the bitter words I said.”
This came hard enough, and fairly smote Dick in the face. He could not believe his own senses. None the less, he kept up the game he was playing, for now he found it leading him into astonishing ways. He had meant first to torment and taunt the man, yet now he meant quite otherwise, for it seemed that he had at last found a means to pierce that cold armor.
“Not I,” he said. “I've money of my own, and enough. Take your own money and go, if ye want, for I'll have none of it. Blood money, that's what it is! ”

“ He is not a Mexican, but a renegade Englishman or American. A plausible scoundrel. He wheedled me out of my money, then had me flung in jail here until I would consent to go into two years of slavery. He robs men bound for California. ”

“ You ought to take that text of yours out West to the Sioux and Blackfeet, along with a keg of rum; they might understand it! So poor Eli is rotting somewhere in Mexico now—and all by your fault.”
The hard words hurt, and Ephraim Hampton winced, and his high chin sagged a little. At this, Dick stared curiously; it was the first time he could remember seeing that man of granite betray any sign of emotion. Yes, there must have been some bitter storm when Eli fled forth. Perhaps the father had let his tongue slip on the dead woman—only this would explain the two cruel words opening that letter. ”

“ Yet my lot is better than others. Some Vermont men have been here six months and exist only on charity. Two companies arrived from New York last month and are now three-fourths dead from plague and fever. ”