My tutor shook his head.
“Nar a word––about any lad?”
“I’m sure not.”
My uncle tapped the tip of his nose.
“A red mole,” said my tutor.
And now my uncle poured himself a great dram of rum. ’Twas a cataract of liquor! Never such a draught had I known him dare––not in his most abandoned hours at the Anchor and Chain. ’Twas beyond him to down it at a gulp; ’twas in two gulps that he managed it, but with no breath between––and then 118 pushed the glass away with a shudder of disgust. Presently––when the liquor had restored his courage and begun to fetch the color to his pallid face––he got his staff in his fist and stumbled off in a high bluster, muttering gross imprecations as he went. The door slammed behind him; we heard no more––never a sound of growl or laugh from the best room where he sat with the gray little man from St. John’s. ’Twas not a great while he stayed; and when he came again––the stranger having gone––he drew up to the board with all his good-humor and ease of mind regained. The rum had thickened his tongue and given a wilful turn to his wooden leg: no more. There was not a hint of discomposure anywhere about him to be descried; and I was glad of this, for I had supposed, being of an imaginative turn, that all the mystery of the luxury that was mine was at last come to its dreadful climax.
“A ol’ shipmate, Dannie,” my uncle genially explained.
’Twas hard to believe.
“Sailed along o’ that there ol’ bully t’ Brazilian ports,” says he, “thirty year ago.”
I wondered why my uncle had not called for his bottle to be brought in haste to the best room.