“That’s too much, you rascal!” cried his father, from the barge.
Neither admonition was, however, minded by Tom, who took what he considered his allowance, and then very coolly pulled alongside, and handed up the basket and bundle of clean clothes on deck. Tom then gave the boat’s painter to his father, who, I perceived, intended to salute him with the end of it as soon as he came up; but Tom was too knowing—he surged the boat ahead, and was on deck and forward before his father could stump up to him. The main hatch was open, and Tom put that obstacle between his father and himself before he commenced his parley.
“What’s the matter, father?” said Tom, smiling, and looking at me.
“Matter, you scamp! How dare you touch the bottle?”
“The bottle—the bottle’s there, as good as ever.”
“The grog is what I mean—how dare you drink it?”
“I was half-way between my mother and you, and so I drank success and long life to you both. Ain’t that being a very dutiful son?”
“I wish I had my legs back again, you rascal!”
“You wish you had the grog back again, you mean, father.”
“You have to choose between—for if you had the grog you’d keep your legs.”