The decay of our glory was to be edged with blood; Jonathan admitted that there would be stuff in the fallen race to deliver a sturdy fight before they went to their doom.
For this prodigious curse, England had to thank young Robert, the erratic son of Jonathan.
It was now two years since Robert had inherited a small legacy of money from an aunt, and spent it in waste, as the farmer bitterly supposed.
He was looking at some immense seed-melons in his garden, lying about in morning sunshine--a new feed for sheep, of his own invention,--when the call of the wanderer saluted his ears, and he beheld his son Robert at the gate.
"Here I am, sir," Robert sang out from the exterior.
"Stay there, then," was his welcome.
They were alike in their build and in their manner of speech.

The accost and the reply sounded like reports from the same pistol.

The old man was tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular--a grey edition of the son, upon whose disorderly attire he cast a glance, while speaking, with settled disgust.

Robert's necktie streamed loose; his hair was uncombed; a handkerchief dangled from his pocket.

He had the look of the prodigal, returned with impudence for his portion instead of repentance.
"I can't see how you are, sir, from this distance," said Robert, boldly assuming his privilege to enter.
"Are you drunk ?" Jonathan asked, as Robert marched up to him.
"Give me your hand, sir." "Give me an answer first.