“All human natur’,” observed Stapleton.
“Come, sir, you have not said one word to me,” said Mary, going up to the Dominie. “Now you must sit down by me, and take care of me, and see that they all behave themselves and keep sober.”
The Dominie cast a look at Mary, which was intended for her alone, but which was not unperceived by young Tom or me. “We shall have some fun, Jacob,” said he, aside, as we all sat down to the table, which just admitted six, with close stowage. The Dominie on one side of Mary, Tom on the other, Stapleton next to Tom, then I and old Tom, who closed in on the other side of the Dominie, putting one of his timber toes on the old gentleman’s corns, which induced him to lift up his leg in a hurry, and draw his chair still closer to Mary, to avoid a repetition of the accident; while old Tom was axing pardon, and Stapleton demonstrating that, on the part of old Tom, not to feel with a wooden leg, and on the part of the Dominie, to feel with a bad corn, was all nothing but “human natur’.” At last we were all seated, and Mary, who had provided for the evening, produced two or three pots of beer, a bottle of spirits, pipes, and tobacco.
“Liberty Hall—I smokes,” said Stapleton, lighting his pipe, and falling back on his chair.
“I’ll put a bit of clay in my mouth too,” followed up old Tom; “it makes one thirsty, and enjoy one’s liquor.”
“Well, I malts,” said Tom, reaching a pot of porter, and taking a long pull. “What do you do, Jacob?”
“I shall wait a little, Tom.”
“And what do you do, sir?” said Mary to the Dominie. The Dominie shook his head. “Nay but you must—or I shall think you do not like my company. Come, let me fill a pipe for you.” Mary filled a pipe, and handed it to the Dominie, who hesitated, looked at her, and was overcome. He lighted it, and smoked furiously.
“The ice is breaking up—we shall have a change of weather—the moon quarters to-morrow,” observed old Tom, puffing between every observation; “and then honest men may earn their bread again. Bad times for you, old codger, heh!” continued he, addressing Stapleton. Stapleton nodded an assent through the smoke, which was first perceived by old Tom. “Well, he ar’nt deaf, a’ter all; I thought he was only shamming a bit. I say, Jacob, this is the weather to blow your fingers, and make your eyes bright.”
“Rather to blow a cloud and make your eyes water,” replied Tom, taking up the pot: “I’m just as thirsty with swallowing smoke, as if I had a pipe myself—at all events, I pipe my eye. Jacob,” continued Tom, to me apart, “do look how the old gentleman is funking Mary, and casting sheeps’ eyes at her through the smoke.”