"Out there on the Devil's Teeth," my uncle impassively began, "when I
laid hold--"
"But," the stranger protested, "I have nothing to do with that!"
"Out there on the Devil's Teeth, that night," my uncle repeated, "when
the seas was breakin' over, an' the ice begin t' come, an' I laid hold
o' that there Book--"
"Hear me, Top! Will you _not_ hear me?"
"Out there on the Devil's Teeth," my uncle patiently reiterated, "when
the crew was drownin' t' le'ward, an' 'twas every man for his own
life, an' the ice begin t' come, an' I laid hold o' that there--"
The stranger struck the table with his palm. "Hear me!" he implored.
"I have nothing--nothing--to do with the Devil's Teeth!"
"Out there on the Devil's Teeth, when I took the oath--"
"You stupid fool!"
"When I took the oath," my uncle resumed, "I knowed 'twould be hard t'
stand by. I knowed that, sir. I done the thing with open eyes. I'll
never plead ignorance afore the Lord God A'mighty, sir, for the words
I spoke that night. I've stood by, as best I could; an' I'll keep on
standin' by, sir, t' the end, as best I'm able. God help me, sir!" he
groaned, leaning still closer to the gray face of his enemy. "Ye think
ye're in hard case, yourself, sir, don't ye? Do ye never give a
thought t' _me?_ Dirty business, says you, betwixt you an' me! Ay;
dirty business for Nick Top. But he'll stand by; he'll stand by, sir,
come what may--t' the end! I'm not complainin', mark ye! not
complainin' at all. The lad's a good lad. I'm not complainin'. He've
the makin's of a better man than you. Oh no! I'm not complainin'. Out
there on the Devil's Teeth, that night, when the souls o' them men was
goin' Aloft an' Below, accordin' t' their deserts, does ye think I was
a fool? Fool! I tells ye, sir, I knowed full well I give my soul t'
hell, that night, when I laid my hand on the Book an' swore that I'd
stand by. An' I _will_ stand by--stand by the lad, sir, t' the end!
He's a good lad--he'll make a better man than you--an' I've no word
o' complaint t' say."
"The lad, the lad! Do _I_ care for the lad?"
"No, God forgive ye!" my uncle cried, "not you that ought."
"That ought, you fool?"
"Ay; that ought."
The man laughed.
"I'll not have ye laugh," said my uncle, "at Dannie. Ye've tried my
patience enough with scorn o' that child." He tapped the table
imperatively, continuing with rising anger, and scowled in a way I had
learned to take warning from. "No more o' that!" says he. "Ye've no
call t' laugh at the lad."
The laughter ceased--failed ridiculously. It proved my uncle's mastery
of the situation. The man might bluster, but was in a moment reduced.
"Top," said the stranger, leaning forward a little, "I have asked you
a simple question: _Will_ you or _won't_ you?"
"I will not!"
In exasperation the man struck my uncle on the cheek.
"I'll not hurt ye for that!" said my uncle, gently. "I'll not hurt ye,
man, for that!"
He was struck again. "There will come an extremity," the stranger calmly
added, "when I shall find it expedient to have you assassinated."
"I'll not hurt ye for the threat," said my uncle. "But man," he cried,
in savage anger, "an you keeps me from workin' my will with the
lad--"
"The lad, the lad!"
"An you keeps me from workin' my will with that good lad--"
"I say to you frankly: Damn the lad!"
My uncle struck the stranger. "Ye'll mend your manners!" cried he.
"Ye've forgot your obligations, but ye'll mend your manners!"
I marvelled that these men should strike each other with impunity. The
like was never known before. That each should patiently bear the
insult of the other! I could not make it out. 'Twas strange beyond
experience. A blow--and the other cheek turned! Well enough for
Christians--but my vicious uncle and this evil stranger! That night,
while I watched and listened unperceived from the hall, I could not
understand; but now I know that a fellowship of wickedness was
signified.
"I'll not hurt you, Top," the stranger mocked, "for the blow."
My uncle laughed.
"Are you laughing, Top?" the stranger sneered. "You are, aren't you?
Well," says he, "who laughs last laughs best. And I tell you, Top,
though you may seem to have the best laugh now, I'll have the last.
And you won't like it, Top--you won't be happy when you hear me."
My uncle laughed again. I wish he had not laughed--not in that unkind
way.
"Anyhow," said the stranger, "take that with my compliments!"
'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, "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.
"'Tis kind o' you!" my uncle exclaimed, with infinite graciousness and
affection. "'Tis wonderful kind! An' I'm glad ye're kind t' me
now--with my ol' shipmate here. But you isn't needed, lad; so do you
go t' bed like the good b'y that you is. Go t' bed, Dannie, God bless
ye!--go t' bed, an' go t' sleep."
"Ay," I complained; "but I'm not wantin' t' leave ye with this man."
"True, an' I'm proud of it," says he; "but I've no means o' curin' the
croup. An' Dannie," says he, "I'm more feared o' the croup than o' the
devil. Do you go t' bed."
"I'll go," I answered, "an you wills it."
'Twas very dark in the dining-room; there was no sight of the
geometrical gentlemen on that geometrically tempestuous sea to stay a
lad in his defiance.
"Good lad!" said my uncle. "God bless ye!"
On the landing above I encountered my tutor, half-dressed, a candle in
hand. 'Twas a queer figure he cut, thinks I--an odd, inconsequent
figure in a mysterious broil of the men of our kind. What was this
cockney--this wretched alien--when the passions of our coast were
stirring? He would be better in bed. An eye he had--age-wise ways and
a glance to overawe my youth--but what was he, after all, in such a
case as this? I was his master, however unlearned I might be; his
elder and master, to be sure, in a broil of our folk. Though to this
day I respect the man for his manifold virtues, forgetting in
magnanimity his failings, I cannot forgive his appearance on that
night: the candle, the touselled hair, the disarray, the lean legs of
him! "What's all this?" he demanded. "I can't sleep. What's all this
about? Is it a burglar?"
It made me impatient--and no wonder!
"What's this, you know?" he repeated. "Eh? What's all this row?"
"Do you go t' bed!" I commanded, with a stamp, quite out of temper.
"Ye're but a child! Ye've no hand in this!"
He was dutiful....
* * * * *
By-and-by my uncle came to my room. He would not enter, but stood
at the door, in much embarrassment, all the while looking at the
flame of his candle. "Dannie, lad," he inquired, at last, "is you
comfortable?"
"Ay, sir," says I.
"An' happy?"
"Ay, sir."
"An' is you content," says he, "all alone with ol' Nick Top at Twist
Tickle?"