“Well,” says I, defiantly, “I’ve heard un lied about.”
“Wrong!” roars my uncle. “Try again, sir! Is ol’ Nicholas Top a rascal?”
There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed for an obstinate whelp.
“A damned rascal, sir!” says I.
“Co’-rect!” cries my uncle, delighted.[2]
And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, “Well, Dannie, lad, you might ’s well measure out the other,” and when I had with care poured his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say my prayers at his knee––not often––most when high winds, without rain, shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was unnerved by the night. “The wind’s high the night,” says he, with an anxious frown; “an’ Dannie,” says he, laying a hand upon my head, “you might ’s well overhaul that there
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“‘Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night,’ |
afore you turns in. ’Twill do you good, an’ ’twon’t manage t’ do me no harm.” And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair, than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face drawn and woful. I see him now––under the lamp––a gray, monstrous, despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh––as then, a child, bound up to a lonely chamber in the night, I sighed.