Here the servant entered.
“See that Mr. Tibbets’s things are taken up to his room, and that there is a good fire,” said my father.
“And,” continued Jack, loftily, “I will, make all your fortunes yet. I have it here!” and he struck his head.
“Stay a moment!” said my father to the servant, who had got back to the door. “Stay a moment,” said my father, looking extremely frightened,—“perhaps Mr. Tibbets may prefer the inn!”
“Austin,” said Uncle Jack, with emotion, “if I were a dog, with no home but a dog-kennel, and you came to me for shelter, I would turn out—to give you the best of the straw!”
My father was thoroughly melted this time.
“Primmins will be sure to see everything is made comfortable for Mr. Tibbets,” said he, waving his hand to the servant. “Something nice for supper, Kitty, my dear,—and the largest punch-bowl. You like punch, Jack?”
“Punch, Austin!” said Uncle Jack, putting his handkerchief to his eyes.
The Captain pushed aside the dumb-waiter, strode across the room, and shook hands with Uncle Jack; my mother buried her face in her apron, and fairly ran off; and Squills said in my ear, “It all comes of the biliary secretions. Nobody could account for this who did not know the peculiarly fine organization of your father’s—liver!”