XVII
RUM AND RUIN
In these days at Twist Tickle, his perturbation passed, my uncle was most blithe: for the Shining Light was made all ready for sea, with but an anchor to slip, sails to raise, for flight from an army of St. John’s constables; and we were a pleasant company, well fallen in together, in a world of fall weather. And, says he, if the conduct of a damned little Chesterfieldian young gentleman was a labor t’ manage, actin’ accordin’ t’ that there fashionable ol’ lord of the realm, by advice o’ Sir Harry, whatever the lad in the case, whether good or bad, why, then, a maid o’ the place, ecod! was but a pastime t’ rear, an’ there, says he, you had it! ’Twas at night, when he was come in from the sea, and the catch was split, and we sat with him over his rum, that he beamed most widely. He would come cheerily stumping from his mean quarters above, clad in the best of his water-side slops, all ironed and brushed, his great face glossy from soap and water, his hair dripping; and he would fall into the arms of his great-chair by the fire with a genial grunt of satisfaction, turning presently to regard 204 us, John Cather and Judy and me, with a grin so wide and sparkling and benevolently indulgent and affectionate––with an aspect so patriarchal––that our hearts would glow and our faces responsively shine.
“Up with un, Dannie!” says he.
I would lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with gingerly caution.
“Easy, lad!” groans he. “Ouch! All ship-shape,” says he. “Is you got the little brown jug o’ water?”
’Twould surely be there.
“Green pastures!” says he, so radiantly red, from his bristling gray stubble of hair to the folds of his chin, that I was reminded of a glowing coal. “There you haves it, Dannie!” cries he. “I knowed they was some truth in that there psa’m. Green pastures! ‘He maketh me t’ lie down in green pastures.’ Them ol’ bullies was wise as owls.... Pass the bottle, Judy. Thank ’e, maid. Ye’re a wonderful maid t’ blush, thank God! for they’s nothin’ so pretty as that. I’m a old, old man, Judy; but t’ this day, maid, ’tis fair painful t’ keep from kissin’ red cheeks, whenever I sees un. Judy,” says he, with a wag, his hand on the bottle, “I’d rather be tempted by mermaids or angels––I cares not which––than by a mortal maid’s red cheeks! ’Twould be wonderful easy,” says he, “t’ resist a angel.... Green pastures! Eh, Dannie, b’y? Times is changed, isn’t they? Not like it used t’ be, when you an’ me sot here alone t’ drink, an’ you was on’y a wee little lad. I wisht ye was a wee little lad again, Dannie; but Lord love us!” cries he, indignant 205 with the paradox, “when ye was a wee little lad I wisht ye was growed. An’ there you haves it!” says he, dolefully. “There you haves it!... I ’low, Dannie,” says he, anxiously, his bottle halted in mid-air, “that you’d best pour it out. I’m a sight too happy, the night,” says he, “t’ be trusted with a bottle.”
’Tis like he would have gone sober to bed had I not been there to measure his allowance.
“Ye’re not so wonderful free with the liquor,” he pouted, “as ye used t’ be.”