“But I will!”
The defiance still left him smiling. “Not accordin’ t’ Chesterfield,” says he. “You’ll be a gentleman, Dannie, when you grows up, an’ you’ll not be wantin’ t’ wed Judy.”
“Not wantin’ to?”
“No, no; you’ll not be wantin’ to.”
“Still,” says I, “will I wed Judy.”
“An’ why?”
“Because,” said I, “I’ve kissed her!”
My uncle would have his last glass alone (he said); and I must be off to bed and to sleep; ’twas grown late for me (said he) beyond the stretch of his conscience to endure. Lord love us! (said he) would I never be t’ bed in season? Off with me––an’ t’ sleep with me! ’Twould be the worse for me (said he) an he caught me wakeful when he turned in. The thing had an odd look––an odd look, to be sure––for never before had the old man’s conscience pricked him to such fatherly consideration upon a night when the wind blew high. I extinguished the hanging lamp, smothered the smouldering 125 coals, set his night-lamp at hand, and drowsily climbed the stairs, having given him good-night, with a hearty “Thank ’e, sir, for that there tutor!” He bawled after me an injunction against lying awake; and I should presently have gone sound asleep, worn with the excitements of the day, had I not caught ear of him on the move. ’Twas the wary tap and thump of his staff and wooden leg that instantly enlisted my attention; then a cautious fumbling at the latch of the door, a draught of night air, a thin-voiced, garrulous complaint of the weather and long waiting.
“Hist, ye fool!” says my uncle. “Ye’ll wake the lad.”