friendly or hospitable. 'Twas an uneasy occupation that
engaged me; no good, as I knew, came from a surly bout with a bottle
of rum. 'Twas still blowing high; the windows rattled, the sea broke
in thunder and venomous hissing upon the rocks, the wind screamed its
complaint of obstruction; 'twas a tumultuous night, wherein, it seems
to me, the passions of men are not overawed by any display of inimical
power, but break restraint in evil company with the weather. The
voices below, as I hearkened, rose and fell, like the gusts of a gale,
falling to quiet confidences, lost in the roar of the night, swiftly
rising to threat and angry counter-threat.

It ended in a cry and a crash of glass....

* * * * *

I was by this brought out of bed and pattering down the stair to my
uncle's help. It seemed they did not hear me, or, having heard, were
enraged past caring who saw them in this evil case. At the door I
came to a stand. There was no encounter, no movement at all, within
the room; 'twas very quiet and very still. There had fallen upon the
world that pregnant silence, wherein men wait appalled, which follows
upon the irrevocable act of a quarrel. A bottle of rum was overturned
on the table, and a glass lay in splinters on the hearth at my
uncle's back, as though cast with poor aim. The place reeked with the
stench of rum, which rose from a river of liquor, overflowing the
table, dripping to the floor: a foul and sinister detail, I recall,
of the tableau. My uncle and the gray little man from St. John's,
leaning upon their hands, the table between, faced each other all too
close for peaceful issue of the broil. Beyond was my uncle's
hand-lamp, where I had set it, burning serenely in this tempest of
passion. The faces were silhouetted in profile against its quiet
yellow light. Monstrous shadows of the antagonists were cast upon
the table and ceiling. For the first time in my life I clapped eyes
on the man from St. John's; but his face was in shadow--I saw dimly.
'Twas clean-shaven and gray: I could tell no more. But yet, I knew,
the man was a man of some distinction--a gentleman. 'Twas a definite
impression I had. There was that about him--clothes and carriage and
shaven face and lean white hands--that fixed it in my memory.

I was not observed.

"Out there on the Devil's Teeth," my uncle impassively began, "when I
laid hold--"

"But," the stranger protested, "I have nothing to do