Chapter Twelve.
Is a chapter of tales in a double sense—The Dominie, from the natural effects of his single-heartedness, begins to see double—A new definition of philosophy, with an episode on jealousy.
We now took our seats on the deck, round the saucepan, for we did not trouble ourselves with dishes, and the Dominie appeared to enjoy the lobscouse very much. In the course of half-an-hour all was over; that is to say, we had eaten as much as we wished; and the Newfoundland dog, who, during our repast, lay close by young Tom, flapping the deck with his tail, and sniffing the savoury smell of the compound, had just licked all our plates quite clean, and was now finishing with his head in the saucepan; while Tom was busy carrying the crockery into the cabin, and bringing out the bottle and tin pannikins, ready for the promised carouse.
“There, now, master, there’s a glass o’ grog for you that would float a marline-spike. See if that don’t warm the cockles of your old heart.”
“Ay,” added Tom, “and set all your muscles as taut as weather backstays.”
“Master Tom, with your leave, I’ll mix your grog for you myself. Hand me back that bottle, you rascal.”
“Just as you please, father,” replied Tom, handing the bottle; “but recollect, none of your water bewitched. Only help me as you love me.”
Old Tom mixed a pannikin of grog for Tom, and another for himself. I hardly need say which was the stiffer of the two.
“Well, father, I suppose you think the grog will run short. To be sure, one bottle aren’t too much ’mong four of us.”