“Wonderful late,” says my uncle.
“No,” said I; “not late for windy nights.”
“Too late for lads,” says he, uneasily.
I poured his glass of rum.
“Think you, Dannie,” my uncle inquired, “that he’ve the makin’s of a fair rascal?”
“An’ who?” says I, the stranger in mind.
“The tutor.”
“I’m hopin’ not!” I cried.
“Ay,” says my uncle, an eye half closed; “but think you he would make a rascal––with clever management?”