We were but newly come from St. John’s: a long sojourn in the water-side tap-rooms––a dissipation protracted beyond the habit (and will) of my uncle. I had wearied, and had wondered, but had found no explanation. There was a time when the rage and stagger of his intoxicated day had been exceeded past my remembrance and to my terror. I forgave him the terror: I did, I am sure! there was no fright or humiliation the maimed ape could put upon me but I would freely forgive, remembering his unfailing affection. ’Twas all plain now: the course of his rascality had not run smooth. I divined it; and I wished, I 58 recall, lying there in the light of the untroubled stars, that I might give of myself––of the ease and placid outlook he preserved for me––some help to his distress and melancholy. But I was a child: no more than a child––unwise, unhelpful, in a lad’s way vaguely feeling the need of me from whom no service was due: having intuitive discernment, but no grown tact and wisdom. That he was scarred, two-fingered, wooden-legged, a servant of the bottle, was apart: and why not? for I was nourished by the ape that he was; and a child loves (this at least) him who, elsewhere however repugnant, fosters him. I could not help with any spoken word, but still could have him think ’twas grateful to me to have him sit with me while I fell asleep; and this I gladly did.
My uncle looked up. “Dannie,” said he, “you don’t mind me sittin’ here for a spell on your little bed, do you? Honest, now?”
’Twas woful supplication: the voice a child’s voice; the eyes––dimly visible in the starlight––a child’s beseeching eyes.
“Jus’ for a little spell?” he pleaded.
I said that I was glad to have him.
“An’ you isn’t so wonderful sleepy, is you?”
“No, sir,” I yawned.
He sighed. “I’m glad,” said he. “An’ I’m grateful t’ you, lad, for bein’ kind t’ ol’ Nick Top. He ain’t worth it, Dannie––he’s no good; he’s jus’ a ol’ fool. But I’m lonely the night––most wonderful lonely. 59 I been thinkin’ I was sort o’ makin’ a mess o’ things. You is happy, isn’t you, Dannie?” he asked, in a flash of anxious mistrust. “An’ comfortable––an’ good? Ah, well! maybe: I’m glad you’re thinkin’ so. But I ’low I isn’t much on fetchin’ you up. I’m a wonderful poor hand at that. I ’low you’re gettin’ a bit beyond me. I been feelin’ sort o’ helpless an’ scared; an’ I was wishin’ they was somebody t’ lend a hand with the job. I overhauled ol’ Chesterfield, Dannie, for comfort; but somehow I wasn’t able t’ put my finger on a wonderful lot o’ passages t’ tie to. He’ve wonderful good ideas on the subjeck o’ manners, an’ a raft of un, too; but the ideas he’ve got on souls, Dannie, is poor an’ sort o’ damned scarce. So when I sot down there with the bottle, I ’lowed that if I come up an’ you give me leave t’ sit on the side o’ your little bed for a spell, maybe you wouldn’t mind recitin’ that there little piece you’ve fell into the habit o’ usin’ afore you goes t’ bed. That wee thing about the Shepherd. You wouldn’t mind, would you, just sort o’ givin’ it a light overhaulin’ for me? I’d thank you, Dannie, an you would be so kind; an’ I’ll be as quiet as a mouse while you does it.”