“A gentleman.”
“An’ why?”
Then this disquieting response:
“’Tis none o’ my business.”
’Twould have been logical had he asked me: “An’, Dannie, lad, what’s a gentleman?” But this he never did; and I think, regarding the thing from this distance, that he was himself unable to frame the definition, so that, of course, I never could be taught it. But he was diligent in pursuit of this knowledge; he sat with open ears in those exclusive tap-rooms where “the big bugs t’ St. John’s” (as he called them) congregated; indeed, the little gold watch by which Skipper Tom Bull’s suspicion had been excited at the Anchor and Chain came to me immediately after the 33 Commissioner of This had remarked to the Commissioner of That, within my uncle’s hearing––this at the Gold Bullet over a bottle of Long Tom––that a watch of modest proportions was the watch for a gentleman to wear (my other watches had been chosen with an opposite idea). And my uncle, too (of which anon), held in high regard that somewhat questionable light of morality and deportment whom he was used to calling ol’ Skipper Chesterfield. But “What is a gentleman?” was omitted from my catechism.
“An’ is this ol’ Nicholas Top a liar?” says my uncle.
“No, sir.”
“Is he a thief?”
“No, sir.”
“Smuggler?”