’Twas a brutal blow with the closed fist. I cried out. My uncle, with the sting and humiliation of the thing to forbear, was deaf to the cry; but the gray little man from St. John’s, who knew well enough he would have no buffet in return, turned, startled, and saw me. My uncle’s glance instantly followed; whereupon a singular thing happened. The old man––I recall the horror with which he discovered me––swept the lamp from the table with a swing of his hand. It hurtled like a star, crashed against the wall, fell shattered and extinguished. We were in darkness––and in silence. For a long interval no word was spoken; the gale was free to noise itself upon our ears––the patter of rain, the howl of the wind, the fretful breaking; of the sea.
“Dannie, lad,” says my uncle, at last, “is that you?”
“Ay, sir.”
“Then,” says he, tenderly, “I ’low you’d best be t’ bed. I’m feared you’ll be cotchin’ cold, there in the draught, in your night-gown. Ye’re so wonderful quick, lad, t’ cotch cold.”
“I’ve come, sir,” says I, “t’ your aid.”
The stranger tittered.
“T’ your aid, sir!” I shouted, defiantly.
“I’m not needin’ ye, Dannie. Ye’re best in bed. ’Tis so wonderful late. I ’low ye’ll be havin’ the croup again, lad, an you don’t watch out. An’ ye mustn’t have the croup; ye really mustn’t! Remember the last time, Dannie, an’ beware. Ah, now! ye’ll never have the croup an ye can help it. Think,” he pleaded, 135 “o’ the hot-water cloths, an’ the fear ye put me to. An’ Dannie,” he added, accusingly, “ye know the ipecac is all runned out!”
“I’ll stand by, sir,” says I.