“Only tongue, lad. Your aunt’s one o’ the finest and best and truest women under the sun. See how clean she’s always kept you ever since you first come to us.”
“No, uncle, since you came and fetched me from that miserable school, and said, ‘don’t cry, my man; you’re my own brother’s boy, and as long as I live I’ll be a father to you.’”
“Did I say them words, Will? Was they the very words?”
“Yes, uncle,” cried the lad, flushing; “the very words;” and he laid his hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder.
“Ah! well, and very proper words too, I suppose,” said the old man; “and I did mean to be, lad; but you see I never had no experience of being a father, and I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of it.”
“You’ve always been like the kindest of fathers to me, uncle,” said Will warmly.
“And she’s always been the kindest of mothers, like, my lad. Lor’ bless you, Will, my boy, it’s only tongue. Splendid craft your aunt is, only she’s overweighted with engine, and her bilers is a bit too big. Tongue’s safety-valve, Will, and I never sit on it, my lad. Make things worse. Burst.”
“Yes, uncle, I see,” said Will, with a sad smile.
“You’re all right, my lad. I didn’t care to send you in the Ryle Navee, so I did the next best thing, made a sailor of you in a lugger. She’s mine now with all her craft of nets—leastwise she’s aunt’s, for she keeps the accounts; but some day when I’m sewn up and dropped overboard out of the world, the lugger’ll all be yours; only if I go first, Will,” he whispered, drawing the lad closer to him, “never mind the bit of a safety-valve as fizzles and whistles and snorts; be kind, lad, to your aunt.”
“I don’t want the lugger,” cried Will, laying his hands on the old man’s shoulders. “I want my dear old uncle to stop, and see him enjoy his pipe, and I won’t take a hit of notice—”