Cather was unfailingly obedient.
“Dannie,” says my uncle, with reviving interest, “have he gone above?”
“He have,” says I.
“Take a look,” he whispered, “t’ see that Judy’s stowed away beyond hearin’.”
I would step into the hall––where was no nightgowned figure listening on the stair––to reassure him.
“Dannie,” says he, wickedly gleeful, “how’s the bottle?”
I would hold it up to the lamp and rattle its contents. “’Tis still stout, sir,” says I. “’Tis a wonderful bottle.”
“Stout!” cries he, delighted. “Very good.”
“Still stout,” says I; “an’ the third night!”
“Then,” says he, pushing his glass towards me, “I ’low they’s no real need o’ puttin’ me on short allowance. Be liberal, Dannie, b’y––be liberal when ye pours.”