“Wore out!” cries he, an angry flash in his wide little eyes. “Me wore out?.. Pass the bottle… Ye’d never think it, lad, an ye could see me t’ St. John’s,” says he, “at the–”

The revelation came to a full stop with the tipping of the square black bottle.

“Where’s that?” says I.

“’Tis a wee water-side place, lad,” says he, with a grave wink, “where ol’ Nick Top’s the sauciest dog in the pack!”

I would pass the water for his liquor.

“An’ here,” cries he, toasting with solemn enthusiasm, “is wishin’ all water-side rascals in”–’twas now a long pull at the glass–“jail!” says he. “’Twould go agin my conscience t’ wish un worse. I really isn’t able!”

By these wanderings on the hills the slow, suspicious wits of our folk of Twist Tickle were mystified and aroused to superstitious imaginings. ’Twas inevitable that they should pry and surmise–surmising much more than they dared pry. They were never bold, however, in the presence of my uncle, whether because of their courteous ways or because of his quick temper and sulphurous tongue, in respect to meddling, I am not able to say; but no doubt they would have troubled us a deal had my uncle even so much as admitted by the set of his eyelid (which he never would do) that there was a mystery concerning us. The lads of the place lurked upon the hills when the business went forward, continuing in desperate terror of my uncle at such times. They learned, notwithstanding their fright, that he trudged far and hard, at first smiling with the day, then muttering darkly, at last wrathfully swishing the spruce with his staff; but not one of them could follow to the discovery of the secret, whatever it might be, so that, though ’twas known the old man exchanged a genial humor for an execrable one, the why and wherefore were never honestly fathomed.

Came, at last, the day before our departure, upon which my wardrobe for the journey must be chosen from the closets and chests, inspected, scrupulously packed–this for travel, that for afternoon, this, again, for dinner–tweed and serge and velvet: raiment for all occasions, for all weathers, as though, indeed, I were to spend time with the governor of the colony. Trinkets and cravats presented pretty questions for argument, in which my uncle delighted, and would sustain with spirit, watching rather wistfully, I recall, to see my interest wax; and my interest would sometimes wax too suddenly for belief, inspired by his melancholy disappointment, so that he would dig me in the ribs with his long forefinger and laugh at me because he had discovered my deception. My uncle was a nice observer (and diligent) of fashion, and a stickler for congruity of dress, save in the matter of rings and the like, with which, perhaps, he was in the way of too largely adorning me.

“Ye’ll be wearin’ the new Turkish outfit aboard ship, Dannie?” says he.

I would not.

“Lon’on Haberdasher come out strong,” says he, at a coax, “on Turkish outfits for seven-year-olds.”

’Twas not persuasive.

“Wonderful pop’lar across the water.”

“But,” I would protest, “I’m not likin’ the queer red cap.”

“Ah, Dannie,” says he, “I fears ye’ll never be much of a gentleman if ye’re careless o’ the fashion. Not in the fashion, out o’ the world! What have ol’ Skipper Chesterfield t’ say on that p’int? Eh, lad? What have the bully ol’ skipper t’ say–underlined by Sir Harry? A list o’ the ornamental accomplishments, volume II., page 24. ‘T’ be extremely clean in your person,’ says he, ‘an’ perfeckly well dressed, accordin’ t’ the fashion, be that what it will.’ There you haves it, lad, underlined by Sir Harry! ‘Be that what it will.’ But ye’re not likin’ the queer red cap, eh? Ah, well! I ’low, then, ye’ll be havin’ t’ don the kilt.”

This I would hear with relief.

“But I ’low,” growls he, “that Sir Harry an’ Skipper Chesterfield haves the right of it: for they’re both strong on manners–if weak on morals.”

Aboard ship I was put in the cabin and commanded to bear myself like a gentleman: whereupon I was abandoned, my uncle retreating in haste and purple confusion from the plush and polish and glitter of the state-room. But he would never fail to turn at the door (or come stumping back through the passage); and now heavily oppressed by my helplessness and miserable loneliness and the regrettable circumstances of my life–feeling, it may be, some fear for me and doubt of his own wisdom–he would regard me anxiously. To this day he lingers thus in my memory: leaning forward upon his short staff, half within the bright light, half lost in shadow, upon his poor, fantastic, strangely gentle countenance an expression of tenderest solicitude, which still would break, against his will, in ripples of the liveliest admiration at my appearance and luxurious situation, but would quickly recover its quality of concern and sympathy.

“Dannie, lad,” he would prescribe, “you better overhaul the twenty-third psa’m afore turnin’ in.”

To this I would promise.

“‘The Lard is my shepherd,’” says he. “‘I shall not want.’ Say it twice,” says he, as if two doses were more salutary than one, “an’ you’ll feel better in the mornin’.”

To this a doleful assent.

“An’ ye’ll make good use o’ your time with the gentlefolk, Dannie?” says he. “Keep watch on ’em, lad, an’ ye’ll l’arn a wonderful lot about manners. ‘List o’ the necessary ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin’ can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye want,’” quotes he, most glibly, “‘an’ which only require your care an’ attention t’ possess.’ Volume II., page 24. ‘A distinguished politeness o’ manners an’ address, which common-sense, observation, good company, an’ imitation will give ye if ye will accept it.’ There you haves it, Dannie–underlined by Sir Harry! Ye got the sense, ye got the eye, an’ here’s the company. Lord love ye, Dannie, the Commissioner o’ Lands is aboard with his lady! No less! An’ I’ve heared tell of a Yankee millionaire cruisin’ these parts. They’ll be wonderful handy for practice. Lay alongside, Dannie–an’ imitate the distinguished politeness: for ol’ Skipper Chesterfield cracks up imitation an’ practice most wonderful high!”

The jangle of the bell in the engine-room would now interrupt him. The mail was aboard: the ship bound out.

“An’ Dannie,” says my uncle, feeling in haste for the great handkerchief (to blow his nose, you may be sure), “I’m not able t’ think o’ you bein’ lonely. I’m for’ard in the steerage, lad–just call that t’ mind. An’ if ye find no cure in that, why, lad”–in a squall of affectionate feeling, his regard for gentility quite vanished–“sink me an’ that damn ol’ Chesterfield overside, an’ overhaul the twenty-third psa’m!”

“Ay, sir.”

“You is safe enough, lad; for, Dannie–”

’Twas in the imperative tone, and I must instantly and sharply attend.

–“I’m for’ard, standin’ by!”

He would then take himself off to the steerage for good; and ’twas desperately lonely for me, aboard the big ship, tossing by night and day through the rough waters of our coast.

TAP-TAP ON THE PAVEMENT

My uncle would not have speech with me again, lest his rough look and ways endanger the social advantages he conceived me to enjoy in the cabin, but from the lower deck would keep sly watch upon me, and, unobserved of others, would with the red bandanna handkerchief flash me messages of affection and encouragement, to which I must not for the life of me respond. Soon, however, ’twas my turn to peer and wish; for, perceiving at last that I was not ill (the weather being fair), and that I had engaged the companionship of gentlefolk–they were quick enough, indeed, these St. John’s folk and spying wanderers, to attach themselves to the mystery of old Nick Top’s child–my uncle would devote himself to his own concerns with unhappy result.

The manner of his days of preparation upon the hills of Twin Islands would return: the ill temper and cunning and evil secretiveness, joined now with the hang-dog air he habitually wore in the city. And these distressful appearances would by day and night increase, as we passed the Funks, came to Bonavist’ Bay, left the Bacalieu light behind and rounded the Brandy Rocks, until, instead of a rotund, twinkling old sea-dog, with a gargoylish countenance, with which the spirit had nothing to do, there landed on the wharf at the city a swaggering, wrathy pirate, of devilish cast and temper, quick to flush and bluster, mighty in profanity, far gone in drink.

Thence to the hotel, in this wise: my uncle, being clever with his staff and wooden leg and vastly strong, would shoulder my box, make way through the gang-plank idlers and porters with great words, put me grandly in the lead, come gasping at a respectful distance behind, modelling his behavior (as he thought) after that of some flunky of nobility he had once clapped eyes on; and as we thus proceeded up the hill–a dandy in tartan kilt and velvet and a gray ape in slops–he would have a quick word of wrath for any passenger that might chance to jostle me. ’Twas a conspicuous progress, craftily designed, as, long afterwards, I learned; we were not long landed, you may be sure, before the town was aware that the mystery of Twist Tickle was once more come in by the Lake: old Skipper Nicholas Top and the lad with the rings, as they called me!

Having come now to the hotel (this by night), where would be a cheerful fire awaiting us in my comfortable quarters, my uncle would unstrap my box and dispose its contents in clean and handy places, urging me the while, like a mother, to make good use of my opportunity to observe the ways of gentlefolk, especially as practised in the dining-room of the hotel, that I might expeditiously master polite manners, which was a thing Skipper Chesterfield held most seriously in high opinion. I must thus conduct myself (he said), rather than idly brood, wishing for his company: for a silk purse was never yet made of a sow’s ear but with pain to all concerned. “An’ Dannie,” says he, jovially, when he had clapped the last drawer shut and put my nightclothes to warm at the fire, “if you was t’ tweak that there bell-pull–”

I would gladly tweak it.

“Thank ’e, Dannie,” says my uncle, gently. “It’ll be the best Jamaica–a nip afore I goes.”

In response to this would come old Elihu Wall, whom in private I loved, exaggerating every obsequious trick known to his kind to humor my uncle. I must then act my part, as I had been taught, thus: must stride to the fire, turn, spread my legs, scowl, meditatively ply a tooth-pick (alas! my groping uncle), become aware of old Elihu Wall, become haughtily conscious of my uncle, now in respectful attitude upon his foot and wooden leg; and I must scowl again, in a heavier way, as though angered by this interruption, and rub my small quarters, now heated near beyond endurance, and stare at the ceiling, and, dropping my eyes sharply upon Elihu Wall, say with a haughty sniff, a haughty curl of the lip:

“Elihu”–with a superior jerk towards my uncle–“fetch this man a dram o’ your best Jamaica!”

’Twas not hard to do–not hard to learn: for my uncle was unceasing in solicitous and patient instruction, diligent in observation, as he cruised in those exclusive places to which (somehow) he gained admittance for my sake and a jolly welcome for his own. And ’twas a grateful task, too, to which I heartily gave my interest, for I loved my uncle. ’Twas his way of teaching me not only the gentlemanly art of dealing with menials, as he had observed it, but, on his part, as he stood stiff and grave, the proper attitude of a servant towards his master. In these days, long distant from the first strange years of my life, I am glad that I was not wilful with him–glad that I did not obstinately resist the folly and boredom of the thing, as I was inclined to do. But, indeed, it must not be counted to me for virtue; for my uncle had a ready hand, though three fingers were missing, and to this day I remember the odd red mark it left (the thumb, forefinger, and palm), when, upon occasion, it fell upon me.

“Elihu,” says I, “fetch this man a dram o’ your best Jamaica!”

Upon the disappearance of Elihu Wall, my uncle and I would resume intimate relations.

“You done well, Dannie!” cries he, gleefully rubbing his hands. “I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better.”

We were both mightily proud.

“Dannie,” says he, presently, with gleeful interest, “give un a good one when he gets back. Like a gentleman, Dannie. Just t’ show un what you can do.”

Enter Elihu Wall.

“What the devil d’ye mean?” says I, in wrath. “Eh? What the devil d’ye mean?”

“Yes, sir,” says Elihu Wall. “Sorry, sir. Very, sir.”

“Devil take your sorrow!” says I.

I would then slip the old fellow a bit of silver, as I was bidden, and he would obsequiously depart.3

“You done well, Dannie!” cries my uncle again, in delight. “Lord! but ’twas grand! You done wonderful well! I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better. I wisht ol’ Chesterfield was here t’ see. Ecod!” he chuckles, with a rub at his nose, gazing upon me with affectionate admiration, in which was no small dash of awe, “you done it well, my lad! I’ve heard Sir Harry say more, mark you! but I’ve never knowed un t’ do it better. More, Dannie, but t’ less purpose. Ah, Dannie,” says he, fondly, “they’s the makin’s of a gentleman in you!”

I was pleased–to be sure!

“An’ I ’low, by an’ all,” my uncle would boast, scratching his head in high gratification, “that I’m a-fetchin’ ye up very well!”

’Twas hard on old Elihu Wall–this unearned abuse. But Elihu and I were fast friends, nevertheless: he sped many a wearisome hour for me when my uncle was upon his grim, mysterious business in the city; and I had long ago told him that he must not grieve, whatever I said–however caustic and unkind the words–because my uncle’s whims must be humored, which was the end to be served by us both. With this assurance of good feeling, old Elihu Wall was content. He took my insolence in good part, playing the game cheerfully: knowing that the hard words were uttered without intention to wound, but only in imitation of gentlemen, from whom Elihu Wall suffered enough, Heaven knows! (as he confided to me) not to mind what I might say.

I must tell that, once, taken with pain, having overeaten myself, left alone in the hotel at St. John’s, I got out of bed and sought my uncle’s lodgings, which I was never permitted to see. ’Twas a rough search for a sick child to follow through in the night, ending by the water-side–a dismal stair, leading brokenly to a wretched room, situate over a tap-room too low for frequency by us, where women quarrelled with men. Here my uncle sat with his bottle, not yet turned in. He was amazed when I entered, but scolded me not at all; and he gave me brandy to drink, until my head swam, and took me to sleep with him, for the only time in all my life. When I awoke ’twas to disgust with the bed and room in which I lay–with the smell and dirt of the place–the poverty and sordidness, to which I was not used.

I complained of the housing my uncle had.

“Dannie, lad,” says my uncle, sighing unhappily, “the old man’s poor, an’ isn’t able t’ help it.”

Still I complained.

“Don’t, Dannie!” says he. “I isn’t able t’ bear it. An’ I’m wishin’ you’d never found out. The old man’s poor–wonderful poor. He’s on’y a hook-an’-line man. For God’s sake ask un no questions!”

I asked him no questions…

Every morning while at St. John’s, my uncle and I must walk the lower streets: my hand in his, when I was a child, and, presently, when I was grown into a lad, myself at his heels. Upon these occasions I must be clad and conduct myself thus and so, with utmost particularity: must be combed and brushed, and carry my head bravely, and square my shoulders, and turn out my toes, and cap my crown so that my unspeakably wilful hair, which was never clipped short, as I would have it, would appear in disarray. Never once did I pass the anxious inspection without needing a whisk behind, or, it may be, here and there, a touch of my uncle’s thick finger, which seemed, somehow, infinitely tender at that moment.

“I’m wantin’ ye, Dannie,” says he, “t’ look like a gentleman the day. They’ll be a thing come t’ pass, come a day.”

There invariably came a thing to pass–a singular thing, which I conceived to be the object of these pilgrimages; being this: that when in the course of our peregrinations we came to the crossing of King Street with Water he would never fail to pause, tap-tap a particular stone of the walk, and break into muttered imprecations, continuing until folk stared and heads were put out of the windows. In so far as one might discern, there was nothing in that busy neighborhood to excite the ill-temper of any man; but at such times, as though courting the curious remark he attracted, my uncle’s staff would strike the pavement with an angry pat, his head wag and nod, his eyes malevolently flash, and he would then so hasten his steps that ’twas no easy matter to keep pace with him, until, once past, he would again turn placid and slow.

“There you haves it, Dannie!” he would chuckle. “There you haves it!”

’Twas all a mystery.

My uncle must once get very drunk at St. John’s–this for a day and a night, during which I must not leave my quarters. These were times of terror–and of loneliness: for it seemed to my childish mind that when my uncle was drunk I had no friend at all. But ’twas all plain sailing afterwards–a sober, cheerful guardian, restless to be off to Twist Tickle. My uncle would buy new outfits for me at the shops, arrange the regular shipment of such delicacies as the St. John’s markets afforded according to the season, seek gifts with which to delight and profit me, gather the news of fashion, lie in wait for dropped hints as to the manners and customs of gentlemen, procure his allowance of whiskey for the six months to come: in every way providing for my happiness and well-being and for such meagre comfort as he would allow himself.

Then off to Twist Tickle: and glad we were of it when the Lake got beyond the narrows and the big, clean, clear-aired sea lay ahead!

THE FEET OF CHILDREN

Once of a still night at Twist Tickle (when I was grown to be eleven) my uncle abandoned his bottle and came betimes to my room to make sure that I was snug in my sleep. ’Twas fall weather without, the first chill and frosty menace of winter abroad: clear, windless, with all the stars that ever shone a-twinkle in the far velvet depths of the sky beyond the low window of my room. I had drawn wide the curtains to let the companionable lights come in: to stare, too, into the vast pool of shadows, which was the sea, unquiet and sombre beneath the serenity and twinkling splendor of the night. Thus I lay awake, high on the pillows, tucked to my chin: but feigned a restful slumber when I caught the sigh and downcast tread of his coming.

“Dannie,” he whispered, “is you awake?”

I made no answer.

“Ah, Dannie, isn’t you?”

Still I would not heed him.

“I wisht you was,” he sighed, “for I’m wonderful lonely the night, lad, an’ wantin’ t’ talk a spell.”

’Twas like a child’s beseeching. I was awake at once–wide awake for him: moved by the wistfulness of this appeal to some perception of his need.

“An’ is you comfortable, Dannie, lyin’ there in your own little bed?”

“Ay, sir.”

“An’ happy?”

“Grand, sir!” said I.

He crept softly to my bed. “You don’t mind?” he whispered. I drew my feet away to make room. He sat down, and for a moment patted me with the tenderness of a woman. “You don’t mind?” he ventured again, in diffidence. I did not mind (but would not tell him so); nay, so far was I from any objection that I glowed with content in this assurance of loving protection from the ills of the world. “No?” said he. “I’m glad o’ that: for I’m so wonderful old an’ lonely, an’ you’re sort o’ all I got, Dannie, t’ fondle. ’Tis pleasant t’ touch a thing that’s young an’ not yet smirched by sin an’ trouble. ’Tis some sort o’ cure for the souls o’ broken folk, I’m thinkin’. An’ you don’t mind? I’m glad o’ that. You’re gettin’ so wonderful old yourself, Dannie, that I was a bit afeared. A baby yesterday an’ a man the morrow! You’re near growed up. ’Leven year old!” with a wry smile, in which was no pride, but only poignant regret. “You’re near growed up.” Presently he withdrew a little. “Ay,” said he, gently; “you is housed an’ clad an’ fed. So much I’ve managed well enough.” He paused–distraught, his brows bent, his hand passing aimlessly over the scars and gray stubble of his head. “You’re happy, Dannie?” he asked, looking up. “Come, now, is you sure? You’d not be makin’ game o’ the old man, would you, Dannie? You’d not tell un you was when you wasn’t, would you? Is you sure you’re happy? An’ you’re glad, is you, t’ be livin’ all alone at Twist Tickle with a ol’ feller like Nick Top?”

“Wonderful happy, sir,” I answered, used to the question, free and prompt in response; “happy, sir–with you.”

“An’ you is sure?”

I was sure.

“I’m glad o’ that,” he continued, but with no relief of the anxious gloom upon his face. “I’m glad you is comfortable an’ happy. I ’low,” said he, “that poor Tom Callaway would like t’ get word of it. Poor Tom! Poor ol’ Tom! Lord love you, lad! he was your father: an’ he loved you well–all too well. I ’low he’d be wonderful glad just t’ know that you was comfortable an’ happy–an’ good. You is good, isn’t you? Oh, I knows you is! An’ I wisht Tom Callaway could know. I wisht he could: for I ’low ’twould perk un up a bit, in the place he’s to, t’ get wind of it that his little Dannie was happy with ol’ Nick Top. He’ve a good deal t’ bear, I’m thinkin’, where he’s to; an’ ’twould give un something t’ distract his mind if he knowed you was doin’ well. But, Dannie, lad,” he pursued, with a lively little flash of interest, “they’s a queer thing about that. Now, lad, mark you! ’tis easy enough t’ send messages Aloft; but when it comes t’ gettin’ a line or two o’ comfort t’ the poor damned folk Below, they’s no mortal way that I ever heared tell on. Prayer,” says he, “wings aloft, far beyond the stars, t’ the ear o’ God Hisself; an’ I wisht–oh, I wisht–they was the same sort o’ telegraph wire t’ hell! For,” said he, sadly, “I’ve got some news that I’d kind o’ like t’ send.”

I could not help him.

“I’m tired!” he complained, with a quick-drawn sigh. “I’m all wore out; an’ I wisht I could tell Tom Callaway.”

I, too, sighed.

“But I ’low,” was my uncle’s woe-begone conclusion, “that that there poor ol’ Tom Callaway ’ll just have t’ wait till I sees un.”

’Twas with a start of horror that I surmised the whereabouts of my father’s soul.

We were but newly come from St. John’s: a long sojourn in the water-side tap-rooms–a dissipation protracted beyond the habit (and will) of my uncle. I had wearied, and had wondered, but had found no explanation. There was a time when the rage and stagger of his intoxicated day had been exceeded past my remembrance and to my terror. I forgave him the terror: I did, I am sure! there was no fright or humiliation the maimed ape could put upon me but I would freely forgive, remembering his unfailing affection. ’Twas all plain now: the course of his rascality had not run smooth. I divined it; and I wished, I recall, lying there in the light of the untroubled stars, that I might give of myself–of the ease and placid outlook he preserved for me–some help to his distress and melancholy. But I was a child: no more than a child–unwise, unhelpful, in a lad’s way vaguely feeling the need of me from whom no service was due: having intuitive discernment, but no grown tact and wisdom. That he was scarred, two-fingered, wooden-legged, a servant of the bottle, was apart: and why not? for I was nourished by the ape that he was; and a child loves (this at least) him who, elsewhere however repugnant, fosters him. I could not help with any spoken word, but still could have him think ’twas grateful to me to have him sit with me while I fell asleep; and this I gladly did.

My uncle looked up. “Dannie,” said he, “you don’t mind me sittin’ here for a spell on your little bed, do you? Honest, now?”

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