“Parson,” says my uncle, “you––goes steerage!”
My tutor started, regarded my uncle with a little jerk of astonishment; and his eyebrows went high––but still conveyed no more than polite inquiry. “I beg your pardon?” he apologized.
“Steerage, parson!” my uncle repeated. “Steerage passage, sir, the night!”
“Really!”
“’Tis the same as sayin’,” I made haste to explain, “that you dines along o’ Uncle Nick at his end.”
The tutor was faintly amused.
“Steerage the night, parson; cabin the morrow,” said my uncle. “Ye’ll live high, lad, when ye’re put in the cabin. Lord love ye, parson! but the feedin’ 111 there is fair scandalous. ’Twould never do t’ have the news of it go abroad. An’ as for the liquor! why, parson,” he proceeded, tapping my tutor on the breast, to impress the amazing disclosure, while we stood awkwardly, “Dannie haves a locker o’ wine as old as your grandmother, in this here very room, waitin’ for un t’ grow up; an’ he’ll broach it, parson, like a gentleman––he’ll broach it for you, when you’re moved aft. But bein’ shipped from the morrow, accordin’ t’ articles, signed, sealed, an’ delivered,” he added, gravely, “’twouldn’t be just quite right, accordin’ t’ the lay o’ fac’s you’re not in the way o’ knowin’, t’ have ye feed along o’ Dannie the night. ’Twouldn’t be right, ’twouldn’t be honest, as I sees it in the light o’ them fac’s; not,” he repeated, in a whisper, ghostly with the awe and mystery of it, so that the tutor stared alarmed, “accordin’ t’ them damned remarkable fac’s, as I sees un! But I’ve took ye in, parson––I’ve took ye in!” he cried, with a beaming welcome, to which my tutor instantly responded. “Ye’ll find it snug an’ plenty in the steerage, an’ no questions asked. No questions,” he repeated, with a wink of obscure meaning, “asked. They’s junk an’ cabbage, lad, with plum-duff t’ top off with, for a bit of a treat, an’ rum––why parson! as for the rum, ’tis as free as water! Sit ye,” says he, “an’ fall to!” his face all broken into smiles. “Fall to, parson, an’ spare nothin’. Better the salt-junk o’ toil,” he improvised, in bold imitation of the Scripture, to my tutor’s further astonishment, “than the ice-cream o’ crime!”
My tutor helplessly nodded.
“Ol’ Nick Top,” says my uncle, “is on’y a hook-an’-line man, an’ fares hard, as fishermen must; but little ol’ Dannie Callaway, sittin’ there in that little cabin o’ his, is a damn little gentleman, sir, an’ feeds off the best, as them big-bugs will.”