“Hang on by your eyelids, father, if you love me,” cried young Tom, in agony.
It was indeed an awful moment; they were now at least sixty feet above the lighter, suspended in the air; the men whirled round the wheel, and I had at last the pleasure of hauling them both in on the floor of the warehouse; the old man so exhausted that he could not speak for more than a minute. Young Tom, as soon as all was safe, laughed immoderately. Old Tom sat upright. “It might have been no laughing matter, Mr Tom,” said he, looking at his son.
“What’s done can’t be helped, father, as Jacob says. After all, you’re more frightened than hurt.”
“I don’t know that, you young scamp,” replied the old man, putting his hand behind him, and rubbing softly; “you’ve bit a piece clean out of my starn. Now, let this be a warning to you, Tom. Jacob, my boy, couldn’t you say that I’ve met with an accident, and get a drop of something from Mr Drummond?”
I thought, after his last observation, I might honestly say that he had met with an accident, and I soon returned with a glass of brandy, which old Tom was drinking off when his son interrupted him for a share.
“You know, father, I shared the danger.”
“Yes, Tom, I know you did,” replied the father; “but this was sent to me on account of my accident, and as I had that all to myself, I shall have all this too.”
“But, father, you ought to give me a drop, if it were only to take the taste out of my mouth.”
“Your own flesh and blood, Tom,” replied his father, emptying his glass.
“Well, I always heard it was quite unnatural not to like your own flesh and blood,” replied Tom; “but I see now that there may be reasons for it.”