XV
A MEASURE OF PRECAUTION
With the threats of the gray stranger in mind, my uncle now began without delay to refit the Shining Light: this for all the world as though ’twere a timely and reasonable thing to do. But ’twas neither timely, for the fish were running beyond expectation off Twist Tickle, nor reasonable, for the Shining Light had been left to rot and foul in the water of Old Wives’ Cove since my infancy. Whatever the pretence he made, the labor was planned and undertaken in anxious haste: there was, indeed, too much pretence––too suave an explanation, a hand too aimless and unsteady, an eye too blank, too large a flow of liquor––for a man who suffered no secret perturbation.
“In case o’ accident, Dannie,” he explained, as though ’twere a thing of no importance. “Jus’ in case o’ accident. I wouldn’t be upset,” says he, “an I was you.”
“Never you fear,” says I.
“No,” says he; “you’ll stand by, Dannie!”
“That I will,” I boasted.
“Ye can’t delude me,” says he. “I knows you. I bet ye you’ll stand by, whatever comes of it.”