closer to my beaming uncle, “this here red stone,” says he, touching the ring on my third finger, “would be a jool? A ruby, like as not?”
“ ’Tis that,” says my uncle.
“An’ this here?” Tom Bull continues, selecting my little finger.
“Well, now, Tom,” says my uncle, with gusto, for he delighted in these discussions, “I ’low I better tell you ’bout that. Ye see, lad,” says he, “that’s a seal-ring, 17 Tom. I’m told that gentlemen wears un t’ stamp the wax o’ their corr-ee-spondence. ’Twas Sir Harry that give me the trick o’ that. It haves a D for Daniel, an’ a C for Callaway; an’ it haves a T in the middle, Tom, for Top. I ’lowed I’d get the Top in somewheres, so I put it in atween the D an’ the C t’ have it lie snug: for I’m not wantin’ this here little Dannie t’ forget that Top was t’ the wheel in his younger days.” He turned to me, and in a voice quite broken with affection, and sadly hopeless, somehow, as I recall, “Dannie, lad,” says he, “ye’ll never forget, will ye, that Top was t’ the wheel? God bless ye, child! Well, Tom,” turning now to his shipmate, “ye’re a man much sailed t’ foreign parts, an’ ye wouldn’t think it ungenteel, would ye, for a lad like Dannie t’ wear a seal-ring? No? I’m wonderful glad o’ that. For, Tom,” says he, most earnestly, “I’m wantin’ Dannie t’ be a gentleman. He’s just got t’ be a gentleman!”
“A gentleman, Nick?”
“He’ve got t’ be a gentleman!”
“You’ll never manage that, Nick Top,” says Tom Bull.
“Not manage it!” my uncle indignantly complained. “Why, look, Tom Bull––jus’ look––at them there jools! An’ that’s on’y a poor beginnin’!”
Tom Bull laid my hand very gingerly upon the table, as though ’twere a thing not lightly to be handled lest it fall to pieces in his grasp. He drew my left hand from my pocket and got it under the light.
18
“Two pearls,” says my uncle, “ ’longside a emerald. Aft o’ that you’ll be like t’ find two more di’monds. Them’s first-water Brazil, Tom.”
Tom Bull inquiringly touched my watch-guard.
“Eighteen karat,” says my uncle.
Tom Bull drew the watch from its pocket and let it lie glittering in his hand; the jewels, set shyly in the midst of the chasing, glowed in the twilight of the stall.
“Solid,” says my uncle.
Tom Bull touched my velvet jacket with the tip of his finger.
“Imported direck,” says my uncle, “from Lon’on. Direck, Tom––is you hearin’ me?––direck from Lon’on. Not,” says he, with quick consideration, “that we’ve no respeck for home talent. My, my, no! Dannie haves a matter o’ thirteen outfits done right here in St. John’s. You beat about Water Street for a week, Tom, an’ you’ll sight un. Fill your glass, Tom! We’re well met this night. Leave me talk t’ you, lad. Leave me talk t’ ye about Dannie. Fill up, an’ may the Lord prosper your smugglin’! ’Tis a wild night without. I’m glad enough t’ be in harbor. ’Tis a dirty night; but ’tis not blowin’ here, Tom––an’ that’s the bottle; pour your dram, lad, an’ take it like a man! God save us! but a bottle’s the b’y t’ make a fair wind of a head wind. Tom,” says he, laying a hand on my head––which was the ultimate expression of his affection––“you jus’ ought t’ clap eyes on this here little ol’ Dannie when he’ve donned his Highland 19 kilts. He’s a little divil of a dandy then, I’m tellin’ you. Never a lad o’ the city can match un, by the Lord! Not match my little Dannie! Clap eyes,” says he, “on good ol’ little Dannie! Lord save ye, but of all the young fellers you’ve knowed he’s the finest figger of a lad––”
“Uncle Nick!” I cried, in pain––in pain to be excused (as shall be told).
“Hush, lad!” croons he. “Never mind!”
I could not help it.
“An’ talkin’ about outfits, Tom,” says my uncle, “this here damn little ol’ Dannie, bein’ a gentleman, haves his best––from Lon’on. Ye can’t blame un, Tom; they all doos it.”
’Twas all hands t’ the pumps for poor Tom Bull. “Dear man!” he gasped, his confusion quite accomplished.
“An’ paid for,” says my uncle.
Tom Bull looked up.
“ ’Tis all,” says my uncle, solemnly jerking thumb down towards the bowels of the earth, “paid for!”
Tom Bull gulped the dregs of his whiskey.
By-and-by, having had his glass––and still with the puzzle of myself to mystify his poor wits––Tom Bull departed. My uncle and I still kept to the stall, for there was an inch of spirits in my uncle’s glass, and always, though the night was late and stormy, a large possibility for new company. ’Twas grown exceeding noisy in a far corner of the place, where a foreign 20 captain, in from the north (Fogo, I take it), loaded with fish for Italian ports, was yielding to his liquor; and I was intent upon this proceeding, wondering whether or not they would soon take to quarrelling, as often happened in that tap-room, when Tom Bull softly came again, having gone but a step beyond the threshold of the place. He stepped, as though aimlessly, to our place, like a man watched, fearing the hand of the law; and for a time he sat musing, toying with the glass he had left.
“Skipper Nicholas,” says he, presently, “I ’low Dannie Callaway haves a friend t’ buy un all them jools?”
“This here little ol’ Dannie,” says my uncle, with another little reassuring tug at my ear, “haves no friend in all the world but me.”
’Twas true.
“Not one?”
“Nar a friend in all the world but ol’ Nick Top o’ Twist Tickle.”
“An’ you give un them jools?”
“I did.”
There was a pause. Tom Bull was distraught, my uncle quivering; and I was interested in the rain on the panes and in the foreign captain who was yielding to his liquor like a fool or a half-grown boy. I conceived a contempt for that shaven, scrawny skipper––I remember it well. That he should drink himself drunk like a boy unused to liquor! Faugh! ’Twas a sickening sight. He would involve himself in some 21 drunken brawl, I made sure, when even I, a child, knew better than to misuse the black bottle in this unkind way. ’Twas the passage from Spain––and the rocks of this and the rocks of that––and ’twas the virtues of a fore-and-after and the vices of an English square rig for the foremast. He’d stand by the square rig; and there were Newfoundlanders at his table to dispute the opinion. The good Lord only knew what would come of it! And the rain was on the panes, and the night was black, and the wind was playing devil-tricks on the great sea, where square-rigged foremasts and fore-and-afters were fighting for their lives. A dirty night at sea––a dirty night, God help us!
“Skipper Nicholas,” says Tom Bull,
