“What’s this?” says he, gently. “It never happened afore, little shipmate, betwixt you an’ me. What’s this?” he begged. “I’m troubled.”
I pulled the cork of his bottle, and poured a dram, most liberally, to delight his heart; and I must turn my face away, somehow, to hide it from him, because of shame for this mean doubt of him, ungenerous and ill-begotten.
“I’m troubled,” he repeated. “What’s this, lad?”
I could not answer him.
“Is I been unkind, Dannie?”
“No,” I sobbed. “’Tis that I’ve been wicked t’ you!”
He looked at me with eyes grown very grave. “Ah!” says he, presently, comprehending. “That’s good,” says he, in his slow, gentle way. “That’s very good. But ye’ll fret no more, will ye, Dannie? An’ ye’ve growed too old t’ cry. Go t’ bed, lad. Ye’re all wore out. I’ll manage the lamp alone. God bless ye. Go t’ bed.”
I waited.
“That’s good,” he repeated, in a muse, staring deep into the red coals in the grate. “That’s very good.”