“For that,” my uncle interrupted, in a passion, “I’ll hurt ye! Come soon, come late, I’ll hurt ye! Hear me?” he continued, savagely. “I’ll hurt ye for them evil wishes!”
I had expected this outbreak. My uncle would not hear me damned in this cruel way without protest.
“Top,” says the stranger, with a little laugh of scorn, “when you hurt me––I’ll know that the chieftest knave of the St. John’s water-side has turned fool!”
“When I hurts ye, man,” my uncle answered, “I’ll hurt ye sore!”
Again the man laughed.
“Ah, man!” my uncle growled, “but ye’ll squirm for that when the time comes!”
“Come, come, Top!” says the stranger, in such a whine of terror, in such disgusting weakness and sudden withdrawal of high boasting, in such a failure of courage, that I could hardly credit the thing. “Come, come, Top!” he whined. “You’ll do nothing rash, will you? Not rash, Top––not rash!”
“I’ll make ye squirm, sir,” says my uncle, “for damnin’ Dannie.”
“But you’ll do nothing rash, man, will you?”