Those were some of the pleasantest days of my boyhood which my brother
Jack and I spent--with Uncle Boz in his curious-looking abode on the
shore of the loud-roaring, tumultuous German Ocean, or North Sea, as it
is more frequently called. On the English shore, I should have said;
for Uncle Boz would not willingly have lived out of our snug little,
tight little island, had the wealth of the Indies been offered him to do
so.
"It's unique, ain't it?" Uncle Boz used to say, as he pointed with a
complacent air at his domicile. How Uncle Boz came to pick up that word
_unique_, I do not know; had he been aware of its Gallic derivation, he
would never have admitted it into his vocabulary--of that I am sure.
Singular it certainly was; I doubt if any other edifice could have been
found at all like it in the three kingdoms. It had been originally,
when Uncle Boz first became its owner, a two-roomed cottage,
strongly-built of roughly-hewn stone, and a coarse slate roof calculated
to defy the raging storms which swept over it. It stood on a level
space in a gap between cliffs, the gap opening on the sea, with a
descent of some twenty feet or so to the sands.
Uncle Boz having made his purchase, and settled himself and his
belongings in his new abode, forthwith began to build and improve; but
as he was his own architect and builder, the expense was not so great as
some folks find it, while the result was highly satisfactory to himself,
whatever the rest of the world might have thought about the matter.
First he added a wing; but as the room within it, though suited to his
height, was not calculated for that of a tall shipmate who occasionally
came to see him, he built another on the opposite side of the mansion,
of the proper dimensions, observing that, should honest Dick Porpoise,
another old shipmate, come that way, the first would exactly suit him;
the said Dick amply making up in width for what he wanted in height.
Uncle Boz then found out that, though he could grill a chop before his
dining-room fire, the same style of cooking would not suit a number of
people; and so he erected what he called the Caboose, at the rear of his
mansion. It certainly would not have been taken for what it was, had it
not been for the iron flue which projected from the roof.
The greatest work Uncle Boz ever undertook with respect to his abode,
was what he called "putting another deck on the craft." I think he must
have summoned assistance, and that, relying on the sagacity of others,
he did not, as he was wont, employ his own; for when the walls were up,
the roof on, and the floors laid, it was discovered that there was no
staircase. He was in no way disconcerted, but he had no fancy for
pulling down; and so he built a tower outside, near the back door, to
contain the staircase; and having got it flush with the roof, he said
that it was a pity not to have a good look-out, and so ran it up a dozen
feet or so higher, with a platform and a flagstaff at the summit.
Several other rooms of different dimensions were added on after this,
and numerous little excrescences wherever by any ingenuity they could be
run out,--some to hold a bed, and others only a wash-hand-stand, a trunk
or two, or a chest of drawers. No materials seemed to come amiss. A
small craft laden with bricks was cast ashore, just as he was about to
begin one of his rooms. This was therefore built with her cargo, as
were several of the excrescences run out from the ground-floor, while
rough stones, and especially wood cast on shore from wrecks, had been
chiefly employed. Then his paint-brush was seldom idle; and, as he
remarked, "variety is pleasant," he coloured differently every room,
both inside and out, increasing thereby the gay appearance, if not the
tasteful elegance, of the structure.
"Isn't it unique?" he asked for the hundredth time, as with paint-brush
in hand, he stood on the lawn in front, surveying the work he had just
completed. There was something, however, much more unique present,--not
the garden, nor the rock-work, nor the summer-house, nor the seats, nor
the fountain, nor the fish pond, nor the big full-rigged ship in front,
nor the weathercocks on the chimneys, but Uncle Boz himself, and his
factotum and follower, Tom Bambo.
How can I describe Uncle Boz--that is to say, to do him justice? I'll
try. He was short, and he was round, and he had lost a leg and wore a
wooden one instead, and his face was full of the most extraordinary
krinklums and kranklums, wrinkles and furrows they might by some have
been called, but all beaming with the most unbounded good nature; and
his little eyes and his big mouth betokened kindness itself. As to how
they did this I cannot tell. I know the fact, at all events. His head
was bald, the hair, he used to affirm, having been blown off in a heavy
gale of wind off Cape Horn, excepting a few stumps, which he managed to
keep on by clapping both hands to the side of his head, to save the rim
of his hat when the crown was carried away. But his nose--foes, if by
possibility he could have had any, might have called it a snub, or a
button; supposing it was either one or the other, or both, it was full
of expression,--the best of snubs, the best of button noses, all that
expression betokening fun and humour, and kindness and benevolence.
Yes, that dear nose of Uncle Boz's was a jewel, though unadorned by a
carbuncle. And Tom Bambo--whereas Uncle Boz was white (at least, I
suppose he once had been, for he was now red, if not ruddy and brown,
with not a few other weather-stained hues), Tom Bambo was the colour he
had ever been since he first saw the light on the coast of Africa,--jet
black. In other respects there was a strong similarity. Uncle Boz had
lost his left leg, Tom his right. In height and figure they were
wonderfully alike. Bambo's mouth was probably wider, and his eyes
rounder, and his teeth whiter, and his nose snubbier, but there was the
same good-natured benevolent expression, the same love of fun and
humour; and, indeed, it was impossible but to acknowledge that the same
nature of soul dwelt within, and that the only difference between the
white man and the black was in the colour of their skin. Yes, there was
a difference: Uncle Boz had lost his hair, while Bambo had retained, in
its woolly integrity, a fine black fleece, which served to keep his
cranium cool in summer and warm in winter. Bambo used to be called the
shadow of Uncle Boz. A jolly, fat noonday shadow he might have been.
He had followed him, I believe, round and round the world, and when at
length Uncle Boz went into port, and was laid up in ordinary, Bambo, as
a matter of course, did the same.
I have said what Uncle Boz was like, and the sort of house he lived in;
but "Who was this Uncle Boz?" will be asked. Uncle Boz was not our
uncle really, nor was he really the uncle of a very considerable number
of boys and girls who called him uncle. I am not certain, indeed, that
he was anybody's uncle: at least, I am very confident that dear old Aunt
Deborah, who occasionally came to stay with him, and was his
counterpart, barring the wooden leg, had no family, seeing that she was
always addressed with the greatest respect as Miss Deborah. The real
state of the case is this. Uncle Boz was beloved by all his shipmates,
and his kind heart made him look upon all his brother officers as
brothers indeed. One of them, shot down fighting for his country, as he
lay on the deck in the agonies of death, entreated Uncle Boz, who knelt
over him, to look after his two orphan boys.
"That I will, that I will, dear brother. There's One above hears me,
and you'll soon meet Him, and know that I speak the truth."
"Boz, you have always spoken the truth," whispered the dying lieutenant.
"I trust in Him; I die happy."
The action was still raging. Another round-shot took off Uncle Boz's
leg.
"I don't mind," he observed, as the surgeon finished the job for him;
"there's the pension to come, and that'll help keep poor Graham's
children."
It's my belief that he did look after those children, as if he felt that
God was watching everything he did for them, or said to them; and the
best of fathers could not have managed them better. They both entered
the navy, and were an honour to the service. They naturally called him
uncle, and so their friends and other children of old shipmates came to
call him so, we among others; and as we were always talking of what
Uncle Boz had said and done, he became generally known by that name.
His name wasn't Boz, though. His real name was Boswell. He was no
relation, however, to Dr Johnson's famous biographer, and he was a very
different sort of person, I have an idea. I never saw him angry except
once, when some one asked him the question.
"No, sir; I have the privilege, and I take it to be a great one, of
being in no way connected with the dirty little lickspittle--there!" he
replied, as if with a feeling of relief at having thus delivered
himself.
Miss Deborah Boswell was shorter and more feminine than her brother,
seeing that icy gales, and salt-water, and hot suns had not played havoc
with her countenance, but she was fully as round and jolly.
Uncle Boz was, as may have been surmised, a lieutenant in the navy. He
got no promotion for losing his leg, and though he went to sea for some
time after that, a lieutenant he remained, and what was extraordinary, a
perfectly contented and happy one. Not a grumble at his ill fortune did
I ever hear. Not a word of abuse hurled at the big-wigs at the head of
affairs. And Tom Bambo,--Tom Bambo had followed Uncle Boz for many long
years over the salt ocean. Tom had been picked up (the only survivor of
some hundreds) from a sunken slave ship off the coast of Africa. Uncle
Boz had on that occasion hauled him with his own hands into the boat.
He was grateful then. Falling overboard afterwards during a heavy gale,
in the same locality, where sharks abounded, when all hope of being
saved had abandoned him, Uncle Boz from the topsail of the ship saw him
struggling.
"I cannot let that poor negro perish," he cried. "Pass me that
grating." Grating in hand, he plunged overboard, swam to Bambo with it,
and a boat being lowered, both were picked up. Bambo well understood
the risk the brave lieutenant had run for his sake.
"Ah, Massa Boz, me lub you as my own soul," he exclaimed, coming up to
him with tears in his eyes.
Uncle Boz had taught him that he had a soul.
Such were Uncle Boz, Aunt Deborah, Tom Bambo, and the house they lived
in. I again repeat, I have spent the happiest days of my life with
them. Holidays they really were. He seldom had less than five or six
boys at a time with him stowed away in the before-mentioned little
excrescences of the mansion. Summer or winter we liked both equally
well. There was always a hearty, chirruping welcome for us, and even
now I see before me those three honest, round, kind faces in the porch,
Uncle Boz and Aunt Deborah in front, and Bambo in the rear, for being
generally employed in the back premises, he was last on the scene, and
it was physically impossible for him to pass his master and mistress.
The Christmas holidays arrived. A jolly journey we had of it; our
pea-shooters were not inactive. There were Jack, and I, and big Ned
Hollis, and David Fowler, and Tom and Harry King; Ned was older than any
of us, and had been at sea, and we all looked up to him greatly. The
friends of Uncle Boz were mostly commanders and lieutenants, surgeons,
pursers, and marine officers. Now and then he entered on his list a
merchant he might have met abroad, whose sons had no home to go to. By
this time the Grahams were at sea, fitted out by Uncle Boz. Uncle Boz
had had a good deal of money come to him, and it's my belief that he
could have lived ten times better than he did, had he spent it all upon
himself, instead of thinking only how he could do most good with it.
The wheels of the chaise which contained us youngsters rolled so
noiselessly over the snow, that not till the wicket opened, and a secret
bell which communicated with the interior rung, did the tableau I have
described appear in the porch. There it was though, in all its
attractive freshness, by the time we had tumbled, some of us head
foremost, out of the chaise.
There was a blazing fire and a plentiful dinner, and we were all soon as
merry as crickets, telling our adventures, Uncle Boz listening as if
they were important matters of state. It was bitterly cold outside, or
the snow would not have remained as it did so close to the sea. We were
looking forward to skating the next day on a piece of water a mile or so
inland, and we were to build a snow man, and a snow castle, which Uncle
Boz undertook to defend with Bambo against all assailants. Aunt Deborah
not being a combatant, was to be employed in the heroine-like occupation
of making ammunition for both sides, in the shape of snowballs. It was
decided that we would in the first place build a castle, and we were to
commence early the next morning; our only fear was that the snow might
melt, but as there was a very satisfactory biting, black, northerly wind
blowing, there was not much chance of that.
Our conversation all the evening was about saps and counter saps, of
which Uncle Boz remarked that the red-coats ought to know far more than
he did; and this led him to talk of some of the scenes in which he had
taken part, and Bambo was sent for to assist his memory, and together
they enthusiastically fought their battles over again. They were like
Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim, except that the ocean was their field of
glory, and that the cut of the two old seamen's jibs was strongly in
contrast to the figures of their brother red-coats. It was a pleasant
evening, that it was. How their tongues wagged. How they flourished
their legs of wood! Bambo seemed to be sitting on quicksilver, on the
top of the wooden stool which he had brought in and placed near the
door. His exclamations and gesticulations kept us in hearty roars of
laughter, as he became interested in the account of any gallant deeds
thus brought by Uncle Boz to his recollection. It is impossible,
however, for me now to repeat any of their accounts. I may do so
by-and-by, when I have got on a little more with my story, for story I
have, and a very interesting one it ought to prove.
Breakfast over the next morning, having put all wheel-barrows,
hand-barrows, and baskets we could find into requisition, we set to work
to rear the stronghold to be defended. Such a castle as was the result
never was seen before or since. Uncle Boz declared that he should be
proud to defend it to the last gasp, Bambo echoing the sentiment. It
was built on the side of the hill, with a perpendicular rock six feet
high at least below it, and we all pronounced the fortress equal to
those of Gibraltar, Ehrenbreitstein, San Sebastian, or any others of
like celebrity. Both defenders were armed with shields--tops of
saucepans--while, standing back to back, they with them defended their
heads, or bravely bobbed as the snowy missiles flew towards them. We
made our attacks now on one side, now on the other, they spinning round
on their wooden legs with astonishing rapidity, to meet them. At length
our general resolved to storm. The most difficult side was chosen--
where the cliff was steepest. A feint was made on the opposite side,
towards which the defenders turned all their attention. We had reached
the summit. Our friends on the opposite side pushed so vehemently
against the walls, that an impetus was given to the whole fabric.
Thundering over the cliff it came, with defenders and assailants, and
all together were buried in the ruins. Uncle Boz soon scrambled out;
but where was Bambo? At length a brown stump was seen wagging faintly.
"That's his _leg_, haul away, boys," shouted Uncle Boz. We hauled and
dug with might and main, for we had no small fear lest our black friend
should be smothered outright; but the body followed the leg, as we
hauled, and happily there was not only life, but activity in him, and
jumping up, before we were aware what he was about to do, he began to
pelt us so vehemently, that, amid shouts of laughter, we were compelled
to take to flight, and scamper down the hill, Uncle Boz aiding him in
following up the victory.
That evening Uncle Boz showed us an apparatus for sending a line on
board a stranded ship, whether invented or improved by him I am not
prepared to say, nor whether the projectile was a rocket or a shot, or
both, fired from a gun. Hollis, the eldest of our party, who had
considerable mechanical talent, seemed clearly to understand its use, I
remember.
Great preparations had been made for Christmas Day. Such a turkey, such
a piece of beef, and such a plum pudding! We went to church in the
morning in spite of the distance, and a heavy gale blowing in our teeth
coming back. Fine old English holly, with many a scarlet berry on it,
adorned the church; and the instruments, violin, violoncello, flageolet,
etcetera, etcetera, with the voices, were in great tune and wind; and
the sermon was appropriate,--"Love, goodwill towards all men," just long
enough to send us away in a happy temper, with its leading idea or
principle in the heads, and may be in the hearts of some hearers. Our
appetites, too, were sharpened by our walk, and the keen wind and the
recollection of the appearance of our destined viands as we saw them
displayed in Miss Deborah's larder. The wind was blowing strong on
shore, not softened by its passage across the North Sea; the snow began
to fall; thickly and more thickly it came down. "Stop," cried Uncle
Boz, as we neared the cliff, "there's a gun!" We listened. The low,
dull sound of a gun came across the seething, tossing ocean, but the
ship from which it was fired was unseen. "She's a large ship,
dismasted, possibly lost her anchors, or has no confidence in our
holding ground. She is right. It is bad," he remarked; "firing to warn
us to be on the look-out for her. We'll do that same at all events,
poor souls. Where will she drive ashore, though?" Stooping down, he
listened attentively for some time, then standing up, he exclaimed,
"She'll strike not far from this to the south'ard. Bambo, we must try
to help them."
"Ay, ay, sir. Dat we will," cried Bambo.
"Then find out Dick Hawker, Sam Swattridge, and the rest. Tell them if
they'll go I'll command them, and if they won't, that they're a set of
cowardly so-and-soes--. No, no, don't say that, they'll go fast
enough."
While Bambo hobbled off to the neighbouring fishing village, where there
was a small harbour, we accompanied Uncle Boz home. Near the harbour a
fine boat was kept ready to launch, which, though not a professed
lifeboat, from her having been fitted up by Uncle Boz, she possessed
many of the necessary qualifications for dangerous service. As soon as
we reached the house, Uncle Boz got out the apparatus I have described,
and gave it in charge of Ned Hollis, with Tom King as his lieutenant,
and the rest of us as crew. He directed us all to obey Hollis
implicitly. Hollis had not only been at sea, but had already superior
scientific attainments.
"Remember men's lives may depend on the way you manage that affair,
lads. Now bear it along with you to the beach, to the spot where the
ship is likely to come ashore. Deb, we'll be back for dinner I hope,
and shall not have worse appetites. Perhaps we may have a guest or
two," he added, as we went out.
We had not gone far before we met two of the coastguard men, who had
heard the firing. The head station, where the lieutenant resided, was
at a considerable distance, and it was feared that he had gone in an
opposite direction. Though the coastguard men would be of great
assistance, Hollis was still to have charge of the apparatus. Uncle Boz
having speedily made his arrangements, hurried off to the village, while
we continued our course along the beach. Behind us was a lofty
sand-hill, and Hollis ordered King and me to climb up to try and
discover the ship. It was bitter work, even on the beach, much worse
for the poor fellows wet through and through at sea. At first, on
reaching the top of the sand-hill, we could see nothing, but soon the
snow fell less densely, and through it we discovered the dim outline of
a large ship, now almost buried in the trough of the sea, now lifted to
the foaming summit of a wave as she drove onward towards the beach. Her
masts were gone, though her bowsprit remained. The tide was carrying
her somewhat along the beach, so that it seemed as if she would drift
not far from the harbour itself. While we were watching, the snow
ceased falling, and our interest was now turned towards the boat with
Uncle Boz and Bambo in her. She had just reached the mouth of the
harbour. It was perilous work. Huge seas were rolling in. A lull was
waited for. Out dashed the boat. It seemed as if it were impossible
she could live amid those troubled waters. How we held our breath as we
watched her progress. Now it seemed as if she were overwhelmed by the
curling, foaming seas; then again she emerged and struggled on,
buoyantly floating on their summits. To save the ship was beyond human
power, but the wish of Uncle Boz was evidently to try and pilot her in
between two rocks, where her crew might perhaps reach the shore. Lives
are more generally lost when a ship drives on an open beach than when
among rocks. In one instance the people may cling to the rocks, but the
undertow from the beach sweeps them out as often as they struggle
towards it, till their strength fails, and they sink beneath the waves.
With a glass King had brought, we could see the people on the deck of
the hapless craft. King handed it to me. "What do you see now?" he
asked.
"Women as well as men, two or three at least," I exclaimed, almost
breathless. "Poor creatures! Oh, King, suppose there were children
among them!"
The ship rolled fearfully, while the seas meeting with the resistance of
her already water-logged hull broke over it in showers of foam, which
must have frozen as they fell on her deck. Her crew were huddled
together, some forward and some with the passengers aft. For her size
there appeared to be very few seamen. We told Hollis.
"When the masts went, many of them likely enough went also," was his
answer.
Hitherto they had not observed the boat. We saw Uncle Boz waving to
them. There was a movement among the men. They saw him; an attempt was
made to hoist a sail on the stump of the foremast. It was blown away in
an instant.
"No anchor would hold; yet it is their only chance," said Hollis. The
coastguard men agreed.
The attempt was made. We saw the crew cutting the stoppers. It was a
moment of breathless anxiety. "Yes, it holds," was shouted. The ship
brought up head to wind. The boat was making way towards her.
"It will never hold," cried Hollis.
Now was the opportunity for the boat to get alongside. Should the cable
part, three minutes would see the ship amid the cruel breakers. The
boat seemed almost stationary; the people on deck stretched out their
hands to her imploringly. Our eyes ached with gazing on her. We
thought not of the biting wind, the piercing cold.
"She is driving," cried Hollis. "But--but--see! see! Uncle Boz is
alongside. Heaven protect him!"
There was a rush to the side. Several persons were lowered into the
boat. We saw others descending by ropes: whether they all got in we
could not tell. Some remained on deck. The boat suddenly appeared at a
distance from the ship.
"The cable has parted!" cried Hollis. "No hope for them now!"
We hurried along to where we saw the ship must strike. A huge roller
seemed to lift her, and with a terrific crash down she came on the sand,
the foaming sea instantly dashing over her, making every timber in her
tremble, and tearing off large fragments of her upper works.
"The stoutest ship ever built couldn't stand those shocks many minutes,"
observed one of the coastguard men.
Hollis had planted his apparatus. A shot was fired, and the line fell
over the wreck as the sea took one poor fellow who had let go his hold
to clutch it. In vain he lifted up his hands to grasp some part of the
wreck. He was borne helplessly into the seething caldron below. Now he
was carried towards us. We could see his straining eyeballs, and his
arms stretched out. In vain, in vain. The hissing roller, as it
receded, swept him far away; a shriek reached our ears, and we saw him
no more. Such has been many a brave seaman's lot. Another seaman was
more successful, the line was secured, and now we signalled to those on
board to secure a stouter line that we might haul it on shore. One was
found, and we began hauling away, but our united strength could only
just do it. How should we ever get a cable taut enough to allow of the
people passing safely along it? Happily at that moment several
fishermen arrived with stout poles, boats' masts, and oars, and began
planting them in the sand.
Then taking the rope in hand, they hauled it in with ease. A hawser had
been made fast to the rope. That in the same way was got in, and the
end secured to the poles. A traveller had been wisely placed on the
hawser. The first man securing himself to it worked his way along,
carrying a line with him. He was one of the mates. There were six more
people on board alive, including the captain, he told us. The rest had
been lowered into the boat, with the women and children. "Children out
in such weather as this!" more than one of us exclaimed. But the boat;
where was that? Now, for the first time, while the line which the brave
mate had brought on shore was being hauled back, we had time to look out
for her. I ran up the sand-hill. In vain I turned my eyes over the
angry, foaming sea. Not a glimpse of the boat could I obtain. Down
came the snow again. My heart sank within me. "Haul away!" I heard
shouted. I ran to take my part. The big tears sprang to my eyes. I
couldn't tell my companions what I feared. At last I could refrain no
longer. "Oh Hollis! oh King! the boat has gone," I cried out, bursting
into tears. "Uncle Boz! dear Uncle Boz and Bambo!" sobbed more than one
of us.
"No fear, masters--no fear," exclaimed one of the fishermen. "The boat
is in long ago, and the lieutenant and those he has saved from a watery
grave are safe on shore, and on their way up to the house by this time."
How our hearts felt relieved, and if we didn't shout for joy, it was
because they were too full for that. Well, I must cut my story short.
Three more men came on shore safe; a fourth attempting to get along,
trusting to his own strength without the traveller, was washed off, and
in spite of a rush made into the water to save him, was carried back and
lost. The brave captain was the last man to leave the ship, and
scarcely had he reached the strand than a huge sea, like some great
monster, with a terrific roar struck the wreck, and literally dashed her
into a thousand fragments. I must not stop either to describe the
appearance of the beach strewn with fragments of wreck, with cargo and
baggage, or how the people from far and near collected to appropriate
what they could, eager to secure a large booty before the proper
authorities arrived to take possession of the property. Bambo, who
appeared to invite all those we had rescued up to the house, satisfied
us that Uncle Boz was safe. We hurried on with our companions, for we
were all wet through, and bitterly cold. The house was hot enough when
we got inside, for there were blazing fires in each room, Uncle Boz
presiding over one, Bambo over the other, with saucepans and spoons, and
a strong smell of port-wine negus pervading the atmosphere. In the
dining-room, into which Miss Deborah did not venture, were five or six
rolls of rugs, with rough human heads sticking out of them. In the
drawing-room, the dear lady's own domain, was a large basket, serving as
a cradle, in one corner, and two big chairs forming a bed in another;
one occupied by an infant, the other by a little creature with fair
face, and beautiful blue eyes, which would look up with bewildered gaze
to watch what was going forward. Aunt Deb was deeply busied in grating
nutmeg, squeezing lemons, and stirring up sugar.
"Oh, dear boys, run and change your clothes, or you'll all catch your
death of cold!" she exclaimed.
Up we went, but soon discovered that she had forgotten to warn us that
most of our rooms were occupied. However, she recollected very quickly,
and hurrying, panting after us, brought us all dry garments into Hollis'
room.
The captain had followed us, and arrived as we came back. Uncle Boz was
about to make another jorum of negus. He looked up, spoon in hand.
"Welcome on shore, 'tis no time for ceremony," he cried out. "Always
glad to receive a seaman, in distress. There, turn into my bed in the
room through there. Your men shall have rugs in the other room there,
till their clothes are dry."
Where was our Christmas dinner all this time? That had the caboose to
itself, and Bambo every now and then stumped off to see how it was going
on, Miss Deborah also occasionally looking in for the same purpose. By
the time the dinner was cooked, the seamen's clothes were dried, and
then the table was spread in the dining-room, and Uncle Boz, standing
up, asked a blessing on the food, and told the shipwrecked seamen to
fall to. Miss Deborah carried off certain portions of the turkey and
ham up-stairs, and Uncle Boz, in like manner, took some into his best
guest-chamber, the one built for his late shipmate. All I know is that
every scrap had disappeared before he found out that neither he nor any
of us had eaten a morsel. He winked to us to say nothing about the
matter, and Bambo soon after placed on the drawing-room table some bread
and cheese, and a huge pile of gigantic mince-pies. We demolished them,
and I may honestly say that I never more thoroughly enjoyed a Christmas
dinner, at least seeing one eaten.
I have a good deal more to say about that pair of blue eyes, now closed
by sleep in the arm-chair, and those up-stairs to whom the little owner
belonged; but I must cry avast for the present. Well! there _is_ a
satisfaction in toiling, and denying ourselves to do good to others, and
to make them happy, and that is the reason why I have an idea that that
same day I have been describing was one of the most satisfactory
Christmas days I ever spent.