“Temptation. He’ve a dark eye, lad, as I ’lowed long ago, an’ he’ve begun t’ give way t’ argument.”
“God’s sake, Uncle Nick!” I cried, “leave the poor man be. He’ve done no harm.”
He scratched his stubble of hair, and contemplatively traced a crimson scar with his forefinger. “No,” he mused, his puckered, weathered brow in a doubtful frown; “not so far. But,” he added, looking cheerily up, “I’ve hopes that I’ll manage un yet.”
“Leave un alone,” I pleaded.
“Ay,” says he, with a hitch of his wooden leg; “but I needs un.”
I protested.
“Ye don’t s’pose, Dannie,” he complained, in a righteous flash, “that I’m able t’ live forever, does ye?”
I did not, but heartily wished he might; and by this sincere expression he was immediately mollified.
“Well,” says he, his left eyelid drooping in a knowing way, his whole round person, from his topmost bristle to his gouty wooden toe, braced to receive the shock of my congratulation, “I’ve gone an’ worked that there black-an’-white young parson along! Sir Harry hisself,” he declared, “couldn’t have done it no better. Nor ol’ Skipper Chesterfield, neither,” says he.