After that we sat for a while, each taken with his own thoughts, until Pemberton was knocking out his pipe, like one approaching the idea of a night's rest, when there came a noise in the outer hall, and the wind blew snow under the crack below the inner door. Some one bounced into the room like a storm. He was a short, thickset man with white side whiskers, and looked like an infuriated Santa Claus, for he was covered with snow.
“Most miserable, infernal, impossible night ever made, Mr. Pemberton! Forty thousand devils—-Ah! Give me some of that, hot! Detestable night!”
“It is so, Andrew,” said Pemberton, soothing and agreeable. “You're near right.”
“As referring to weather,” said Stevey Todd, “though not putting it so strong, you might—”
But the newcomer broke in, and beat the table with his fist.
“Weather! No! Not weather. Mr. Pemberton, I'll tell you what's the matter. Here's my daughter run away to be married with the coolest, freshest, limber-tongued young codfish that ever escaped salting. Not if I know it! I'll salt him! I'll pickle him! I will, if my name's McCulloch.”
He puffed hard, and sat down. Stevey Todd looked at Andrew McCulloch, then he looked at the others and winked cautiously, and Pemberton winked back. But Captain Tom did not look up. Uncle Abimelech too kept his eyes on the fire. He seemed to be following his old train of thought, which Andrew McCulloch's coming had started again in his mind, for he began:
“Before I was married, her mother she used to throw kettles at me. They was kettles,” he said bitterly, “with spouts and handles. Aye, afterward she did too, some.”
Andrew McCulloch puffed and looked surprised and Pemberton said:
“Ran in the family?”