“Steenie, you are a mere ass,” said Sir Remnant; “you always are, when you get too much—which you ought to keep for dinner-time. I have settled everything for you upstairs, so that it must come right, if only you can hold your tongue and wait. I have them all under my thumb; and nothing but your rotten fuss about the young maid can make us one day later. Her time is fixed. And whether she dislikes——”
“Dis-dis-dis—what I meant to say was—despises.”
“Pish, and tush, fiddlemaree! A young girl to despise a man! I had better marry her myself, I trow, if that is all you are fit for. Now just go away; go down the hill; go and see old Hales; go anywhere for a couple of hours, while I see Lorraine. Only first give me your honour for this, that you will not touch one more drop of drink until you come back for the dinner-time.”
“You are always talking at me about that now. And I have had almost less than nothing. And even that drop I should not have had, if Alice had not upset me so.”
“Well, you may have needed it. I will say no more. We will upset her pretty well, by-and-by, the obstinate, haughty fagot! But, Steenie, you will give me your honour—not another drop, except water. You always keep your honour, Steenie.”
“Yes, sir, I do; and I will give it. But I must not go near either Alice or Hales. She does so upset me that I must have a drop. And I defy anybody to call upon Hales without having two or three good glasses. Oh, I know what I’ll do; and I need not cross that infernal black water to do it. I’ll call upon the boy at the bottom of the hill, and play at pitch guineas with him. They say that he rolls every night in money.”
“Then, Steenie, go and take a lesson from him. All you do with the money is to roll it away—ducks and drakes, and dipping yourself. I would not have stuck to this matter so much, except that I know it for your last chance. Your last chance, Steenie, is to have a wife, with sense and power to steer you. It is worth all the money we are going to pay; even if it never come back again; which I will take deuced good care it does. You know you are my son, my boy.”
“Well, I suppose I can’t be anybody’s else; you carried on very much as I do.”
“And when my time is over, Steenie—if you haven’t drunk yourself to death before me—you will say that you had a good kind father, who would go to the devil to save you.”
“Really, sir, you were down upon me for having had a sentimental drop. But, I think, I may return the compliment.”