The Cruise of the Shining Light Part 19

"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 bl.u.s.ter, 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 a.s.sa.s.sinated."

"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: d.a.m.n 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 t.i.ttered.

"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, G.o.d 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. "G.o.d 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 c.o.c.kney--this wretched alien--when the pa.s.sions 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 embarra.s.sment, 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?"