“But,” says he, “an I was you I wouldn’t fear on no account whatever. No,” he repeated, “I wouldn’t fear––an I was you.”
So John Cather was left with Judy and the watchful 232 maid-servant who loved her, having no child of her own, when my uncle and I fared out of the tickle upon the outside boat. I was troubled in the dark and wash and heave of that night, but could not for the life of me tell why. John Cather had bade me good-bye with a heartening laugh and clap on the shoulder. ’Twas with gratitude––and sure persuasion of unworthiness––that I remembered his affection. And Judy had given me a sisterly kiss of farewell which yet lingered upon my lips so warmly that in my perplexity I was conscious of it lying there and must like a thirsty man feel the place her moist mouth had touched. ’Twas grief, thinks I, because of parting with my friend John Cather; and I puzzled no longer, but devoted myself to the accomplishment of manners, as I had been taught, and now attended with interest, having grown old and wise. ’Twas rainy weather, windy, with the sea in an ugly pother off the rocks of our hard coast. ’Twas wet, blustering weather, indeed, all the hapless time we were gone from Twist Tickle: the tap-rooms of St. John’s, I recall, disagreeably steamed and reeked. My uncle put me to bed that night with a motherly injunction to recite the twenty-third psalm for safety against the perils of the sea and the machinations of wicked men, and to regard the precepts of the noble Lord Chesterfield for guidance in more difficult waters: the man being quite sober for the first time in all my life upon these occasions of departure.
“Dannie, lad,” says he, “you cling t’ that there little anchor I’m give ye t’ hold to.”
I asked him mechanically what that was.
“The twenty-third psa’m,” says he.
To this I promised.
“An’, Dannie,” says he, drawing the great bandanna handkerchief from his trousers-pocket to blow his nose, “don’t ye be gettin’ lonely: for Dannie––”
I must sharply attend.
“I’m for’ard,” he declared, “standin’ by!”