“No—oh no; it ain’t bad. I’ve had scores of un in my time. It don’t amount t’ nothin’. Oh no—it ain’t what you might call bad!”
The wrist was bound anew. Jonathan stumbled down the dark steps to the water-side, glad that his wife was to have that which she so much desired. He pushed out in the punt. She was only a woman, he thought, with an indulgent smile, but she did want—that little thing. The wind was high—the rain sweeping out of the east. He turned the bow of the punt toward a point of light shining cheerily far off in the dark, tumultuous night.
Jonathan Stock had no more than got off his soggy boots, and washed his hands, and combed his hair, and drawn close to the kitchen fire—while his wife clattered over the bare floor about the business of his comfort—when Parson Jaunt tapped and entered: and folded his umbrella, and wiped his face with a white handkerchief, and jovially rubbed his hands together. This was a hearty, stout little man, with a double chin and a round, rosy face; with twinkling eyes; with the jolliest little paunch in the world; dressed all in black cloth, threadbare and shiny, powdered with dandruff upon the shoulders; and wearing a gigantic yellow chain hanging from pocket to pocket of the waistcoat, and wilted collar and cuffs, and patent-leather shoes, which were muddy and cracked and turned up at the toes. A hearty welcome he got; and he had them all laughing at once—twins and all. Even the chickens in the coop under the settee clucked, and the kid behind the stove rapturously bleated, and the last baby chuckled, and the dog yawned and shook his hind quarters, joyfully awake.
’Twas always comforting to have Parson Jaunt drop in. Wherever he went among the folk of Candlestick Cove, in wet weather or dry, poor times or bad, there was a revival of jollity. His rippling person, smiling face, quick laugh, amiable intimacy, his quips and questions, his way with children—these made him beloved. Ay, there was always a welcome for Parson Jaunt!
“Ha, ha! Yes,” the parson proceeded, “the brethren will be here on the next mail-boat for the district meeting. Ha, ha! Well, well, now! And how’s the baby getting along, Aunt Tibbie? Hut! you little toad; don’t you laugh at me!”
But the baby would.
“Ha-a-a, you rat! You will laugh, will you? He’s a fine child, that.... And I was thinking, Skipper Jonathan, that you and Aunt Tibbie might manage Parson All of Satan’s Trap. Times are hard, of course; but it’s the Lord’s work, you know.... Eh? Get out, you squid! Stop that laughing!”
The baby could not.
“Stop it, I say!”