Tom Bull inquiringly touched my watch-guard.
“Eighteen karat,” says my uncle.
Tom Bull drew the watch from its pocket and let it lie glittering in his hand; the jewels, set shyly in the midst of the chasing, glowed in the twilight of the stall.
“Solid,” says my uncle.
Tom Bull touched my velvet jacket with the tip of his finger.
“Imported direck,” says my uncle, “from Lon’on. Direck, Tom––is you hearin’ me?––direck from Lon’on. Not,” says he, with quick consideration, “that we’ve no respeck for home talent. My, my, no! Dannie haves a matter o’ thirteen outfits done right here in St. John’s. You beat about Water Street for a week, Tom, an’ you’ll sight un. Fill your glass, Tom! We’re well met this night. Leave me talk t’ you, lad. Leave me talk t’ ye about Dannie. Fill up, an’ may the Lord prosper your smugglin’! ’Tis a wild night without. I’m glad enough t’ be in harbor. ’Tis a dirty night; but ’tis not blowin’ here, Tom––an’ that’s the bottle; pour your dram, lad, an’ take it like a man! God save us! but a bottle’s the b’y t’ make a fair wind of a head wind. Tom,” says he, laying a hand on my head––which was the ultimate expression of his affection––“you jus’ ought t’ clap eyes on this here little ol’ Dannie when he’ve donned his Highland 19 kilts. He’s a little divil of a dandy then, I’m tellin’ you. Never a lad o’ the city can match un, by the Lord! Not match my little Dannie! Clap eyes,” says he, “on good ol’ little Dannie! Lord save ye, but of all the young fellers you’ve knowed he’s the finest figger of a lad––”
“Uncle Nick!” I cried, in pain––in pain to be excused (as shall be told).
“Hush, lad!” croons he. “Never mind!”
I could not help it.
“An’ talkin’ about outfits, Tom,” says my uncle, “this here damn little ol’ Dannie, bein’ a gentleman, haves his best––from Lon’on. Ye can’t blame un, Tom; they all doos it.”