’Twas said with a snap.
“A saucy ol’ dog!” snarls he. “An’ Lord love ye! but he’s able t’––t’––t’ bite!”
“Uncle Nick,” says I, “you’re all wore out along o’ walkin’ them hills.”
“Wore out!” cries he, an angry flash in his wide little eyes. “Me wore out?... Pass the bottle.... Ye’d never think it, lad, an ye could see me t’ St. John’s,” says he, “at the––”
The revelation came to a full stop with the tipping of the square black bottle.
“Where’s that?” says I.
“’Tis a wee water-side place, lad,” says he, with a grave wink, “where ol’ Nick Top’s the sauciest dog in the pack!”
I would pass the water for his liquor.
“An’ here,” cries he, toasting with solemn enthusiasm, “is wishin’ all water-side rascals in”––’twas now a long pull at the glass––“jail!” says he. “’Twould go agin my conscience t’ wish un worse. I really isn’t able!”
By these wanderings on the hills the slow, suspicious wits of our folk of Twist Tickle were mystified and aroused to superstitious imaginings. ’Twas inevitable that they should pry and surmise––surmising much more than they dared pry. They were never bold, however, in the presence of my uncle, whether because 40 of their courteous ways or because of his quick temper and sulphurous tongue, in respect to meddling, I am not able to say; but no doubt they would have troubled us a deal had my uncle even so much as admitted by the set of his eyelid (which he never would do) that there was a mystery concerning us. The lads of the place lurked upon the hills when the business went forward, continuing in desperate terror of my uncle at such times. They learned, notwithstanding their fright, that he trudged far and hard, at first smiling with the day, then muttering darkly, at last wrathfully swishing the spruce with his staff; but not one of them could follow to the discovery of the secret, whatever it might be, so that, though ’twas known the old man exchanged a genial humor for an execrable one, the why and wherefore were never honestly fathomed.