delicate readers of my otherwise inoffensive narrative to elide the word? or to supply, on the spur of the moment, an acceptable equivalent, of which, I am told, there is an infinite variety? or (better still) to utter it courageously? I am for the bolder course: ’tis a discipline rich in cultural advantages. But ’tis for the reader, of course, to choose the alternative.
38
IV
ON SINISTER BUSINESS
Our pilgrimages to St. John’s, occurring twice a year, were of a singular description: not only in the manner of our progress, which was unexampled, in view of our relationship and condition, but in the impenetrable character of our mission and in the air of low rascality it unfailingly wore. For many days before our departure from Twist Tickle by the outside boat, my uncle would quit the Green Bull grounds, where he fished with hook and line, would moor his punt fore and aft, and take to the bleak hills of Twin Islands, there (it seemed) to nurse some questionable design: whence at dusk he would emerge, exhausted in leg and spirit, but yet with strength to mutter obscure imprecations as he came tapping up the gravelled walk from the gate, and with the will to manage a bottle and glass in the kitchen.
“The bottle!” cries he. “Ecod! the dog’ll never scare ol’ Nick Top. Dannie, the bottle!”
While I fled for this he would sit growling by the table; but before I was well returned the humor would be vanishing, so that sometimes I guessed (but might 39 be mistaken) he practised this rage and profanity to play a part.
“Ol’ Nick Top,” says he, “is as saucy a dog as you’ll find in the pack!”
’Twas said with a snap.
“A saucy ol’ dog!” snarls he. “An’ Lord love ye! but he’s able t’––t’––t’ bite!”
“Uncle Nick,” says I, “you’re all wore out along o’ walkin’ them hills.”
“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 40 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 41 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 42 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
