“He shan’t be a brewer!”
“I say he shall live like a gentleman!”
“I say he shall squat like a Turk!”
Bang went Andrew’s hand on the table: “I’ve pledged my word, mind!”
Tom made a counter demonstration: “And I’ll have my way!”
“Hang it! I can be as eccentric as you,” said Andrew.
“And I as much a donkey as you, if I try hard,” said Tom.
Something of the cobbler’s stall followed this; till waxing furious, Tom sung out to Jonathan, hovering around them in watchful timidity, “More Port!” and the words immediately fell oily on the wrath of the brothers; both commenced wiping their heads with their handkerchiefs the faces of both emerged and met, with a half-laugh: and, severally determined to keep to what they had spoken, there was a tacit accord between them to drop the subject.
Like sunshine after smart rain, the Port shone on these brothers. Like a voice from the pastures after the bellowing of the thunder, Andrew’s voice asked: “Got rid of that twinge of the gout, Tom? Did you rub in that ointment?” while Tom replied: “Ay. How about that rheumatism of yours? Have you tried that Indy oil?” receiving a like assurance.
The remainder of the Port ebbed in meditation and chance remarks. The bit of storm had done them both good; and Tom especially—the cynical, carping, grim old gentleman—was much improved by the nearer resemblance of his manner to Andrew’s.