d to be
distinguished in that obscurity of wind and rain. 'Twas cold, and
the lamp was flaring: I closed the door against this inrush of
weather.

My wretched uncle beckoned the tutor close, a finger lifted in
caution; but still kept looking at me--and all the while stared at me
with eyes of frightened width--in a way that saw me not at all.
"Parson," he whispered, "they wasn't ar another man landed by the
mail-boat the day, was they?"

The tutor nodded.

"Ye wouldn't say, would ye," my uncle diffidently inquired, "that he'd
be from St. John's by the cut of um?"

"A gray little man from St. John's."

"I 'low then," says my uncle, "that he talked a wonderful spell about
a lad, didn't um?"

My tutor shook his head.

"Nar a word--about _any_ lad?"

"I'm sure not."

My uncle tapped the tip of his nose.

"A red mole," said my tutor.

And now my uncle poured himself a great dram of rum. 'Twas a cataract
of liquor! Never such a draught had I known him dare--not in his most
abandoned hours at the Anchor and Chain. 'Twas beyond him to down it
at a gulp; 'twas in two gulps that he managed it, but with no breath
between--and then pushed the glass away with a shudder of disgust.
Presently--when the liquor had restored his courage and begun to fetch
the color to his pallid face--he got his staff in his fist and
stumbled off in a high bluster, muttering gross imprecations as he
went. The door slammed behind him; we heard no more--never a sound of
growl or laugh from the best room where he sat with the gray little
man from St. John's. 'Twas not a great while he stayed; and when he
came again--the stranger having gone--he drew up to the board with all
his good-humor and ease of mind regained. The rum had thickened his
tongue and given a wilful turn to his wooden leg: no more. There was
not a hint of discomposure anywhere about him to be descried; and I
was glad of this, for I had supposed, being of an imaginative turn,
that all the mystery of the luxury that was mine was at last come to
its dreadful climax.

"A ol' shipmate, Dannie," my uncle genially explained.

'Twas hard to believe.

"Sailed along o' that there ol' bully t' Brazilian ports," says he,
"thirty year ago."

I wondered why my uncle had not called for his bottle to be brought in
haste to the best room.

"Still storming," the tutor ventured.

"Blowin' high," I remarked.

"I 'low I'll stay ashore, the morrow," says my uncle, "an' have a
spurt o'