“She kissed un. ’Twas like a pistol-shot. An’, Lord! her poor face was shinin’....”
In the cabin of the Quick as Wink we listened to the wind as it scampered over the deck; and my uncle and I watched Tumm pick at the knot in the table.
“He don’t need no sense,” said Tumm, looking up, at last; “for he’ve had a mother, an’ he’ve got a memory.”
’Twas very true, I thought.
XXII
GATHERING WINDS
’Twas by advice of Sir Harry, with meet attention to the philosophy of Lord Chesterfield in respect to the particular accomplishments essential to one who would both please and rise in the world, that my uncle commanded the grand tour to further my education and to cure my twisted foot. “’Tis the last leg o’ the beat, lad;” he pleaded; “ye’ll be a gentleman, made t’ order, accordin’ t’ specifications, when ’tis over with; an’ I’ll be wonderful glad,” says he, wearily, “when ’tis done, for I’ll miss ye sore, lad––ecod! but I’ll miss ye sore.” Abroad, then, despite the gray warning, went John Cather and I, tutor and young gentleman, the twain not to be distinguished from a company of high birth. ’Twas a ghastly thing: ’twas a thing so unfit and grotesque that I flush to think of it––a thing, of all my uncle’s benefits, I wish undone and cannot to this day condone. But that implacable, most tender old ape, when he bade us God-speed on the wharf, standing with legs and staff triangularly disposed to steady him, rippled with pride and admiration to observe the genteel performance of our departure, and in the intervals of 265 mopping his red, sweaty, tearful countenance, exhibited, in unwitting caricature, the defiant consciousness of station he had with infinite pains sought to have me master.