"The parson," he explained, in a radiant whisper; "he've begun t'
yield."
"T' what?" I demanded.
"Temptation. He've a dark eye, lad, as I 'lowed long ago, an' he've
begun t' give way t' argument."
"God's sake, Uncle Nick!" I cried, "leave the poor man be. He've done
no harm."
He scratched his stubble of hair, and contemplatively traced a crimson
scar with his forefinger. "No," he mused, his puckered, weathered brow
in a doubtful frown; "not so far. But," he added, looking cheerily up,
"I've hopes that I'll manage un yet."
"Leave un alone," I pleaded.
"Ay," says he, with a hitch of his wooden leg; "but I _needs_ un."