“It don’t matter, Abram,” said the old lady in a lachrymose whine; “it’s my fate to toil, and I’m not long for this world, so it don’t matter. It was my fate to be a toiler; and those clothes of his will be too small for him to wear when they’re dry. I don’t know what I’m to do.”
“Stretch ’em,” said the old gentleman, sending a cloud into his waistcoat.
“But they won’t stretch,” cried the old lady peevishly.
“Put ’em away and save ’em,” said the old man. “I may adopt another nevvy—smaller size,”—and here there was a veil spread over his face by his projecting his lower lip and sending the smoke up into his eyes.
“If you ever did such a thing again, I’d have a divorce,” cried the old lady sharply. “You go and change your things, sir, and then get a book till dinner’s ready.”
The old lady stepped into the parlour, and the old purser was in the act of winking solemnly at his nephew when Mrs Marion reappeared.
“Ah, I saw!” she cried. “You are encouraging this boy, Abram. Here; Betsey, bring your flannel and wipe up this mess. And you, go in directly and change your things.”
The old lady disappeared again, and the wrinkles stood all over the old purser’s face as he growled softly between fancy puffs of smoke.
“Woman’s words in house, Will, is like cap’en’s orders ’board ship, with the articles over at the back. Must be minded, or it’s rank mutiny, and a disrate. Puff. Go and get a dry rig.”
“Yes, uncle,” said Will quietly.