"Steerage, lad," he answered. "Tut!" he growled, "none o' that, now!
'Twill be steerage."
It grieved me to know it.
"An' now, Dannie, lad," quoth my uncle, aloud, with a thirsty rubbing
of the hands and a grin to match, "fetch the bottle. The bottle, b'y!
'Tis time for growed men t' pledge the v'y'ge. A bit nippy, parson
man? The bottle, Dannie!"
"Bottle?" cries my tutor. "Why, really, you know, Skipper Nicholas,
I--"
"Is you much give t' the use o' fo'c's'les, parson?" my uncle
interrupted.
My tutor was not.
"Then," says my uncle, grimly, "you'll be wantin' a drap."
'Twas true enough, by my uncle's mysterious perversity: a drop would
be wanted, indeed.
"Dannie, lad," he commanded, "fetch that there bottle!"
Cather tossed his head, with a brief little laugh, and then, resigned
to my uncle's idiosyncrasy--divining the importance of it--gave me a
quick nod of permission: the which I was glad to get, aware, as I
was, of the hospitable meaning of my uncle's invitation and his
sensitiveness in respect to its reception. So I got the ill-seeming
black bottle from the locker, the tray and glasses and little brown
jug from the pantry, the napkin from Agatha, in a flutter in the
kitchen, and having returned to the best room, where the tutor
awaited the event in some apparent trepidation, I poured my uncle's
dram, and measured an hospitable glass for Cather, but with less
generous hand, not knowing his capacity, but shrewdly suspecting its
inferiority. The glasses glittered invitingly in the light of the fire
and lamp, and the red liquor lay glowing within: an attractive
draught, no doubt--to warm, upon that windy night, and to appetize
for the belated meat.
"T' you, parson!" says my uncle.