with that!"

"Out there on the Devil's Teeth, that night," my uncle repeated, "when
the seas was breakin' over, an' the ice begin t' come, an' I laid hold
o' that there Book--"

"Hear me, Top! Will you _not_ hear me?"

"Out there on the Devil's Teeth," my uncle patiently reiterated, "when
the crew was drownin' t' le'ward, an' 'twas every man for his own
life, an' the ice begin t' come, an' I laid hold o' that there--"

The stranger struck the table with his palm. "Hear me!" he implored.
"I have nothing--nothing--to do with the Devil's Teeth!"

"Out there on the Devil's Teeth, when I took the oath--"

"You stupid fool!"

"When I took the oath," my uncle resumed, "I knowed 'twould be hard t'
stand by. I knowed that, sir. I done the thing with open eyes. I'll
never plead ignorance afore the Lord God A'mighty, sir, for the words
I spoke that night. I've stood by, as best I could; an' I'll keep on
standin' by, sir, t' the end, as best I'm able. God help me, sir!" he
groaned, leaning still closer to the gray face of his enemy. "Ye think
ye're in hard case, yourself, sir, don't ye? Do ye never give a
thought t' _me?_ Dirty business, says you, betwixt you an' me! Ay;
dirty business for Nick Top. But he'll stand by; he'll stand by, sir,
come what may--t' the end! I'm not complainin', mark ye! not
complainin' at all. The lad's a good lad. I'm not complainin'. He've
the makin's of a better man than you. Oh no! I'm not complainin'. Out
there on the Devil's Teeth, that night, when the souls o' them men was
goin' Aloft an' Below, accordin' t' their deserts, does ye think I was
a fool? Fool! I tells ye, sir, I knowed full well I give my soul t'
hell, that night, when I laid my hand on the Book an' swore that I'd
stand by. An' I _will_ stand by--stand by the lad, sir, t' the end!
He's a good lad--he'll make a better man than you--an' I've no word
o' complaint t' say."

"The lad, the lad! Do _I_ care for the lad?"

"No, God forgive ye!" my uncle cried, "not you that ought."

"That ought, you fool?"

"Ay; that ought."

The man laughed.

"I'll not have ye laugh," said my uncle, "at Dannie. Ye've tried my
patience enough with scorn o' that child." He tapped the table
imperatively, continuing with rising anger, and scowled in a way I had
learned to take warning from. "No more o' that!" says he. "Ye've no
call t' laugh at the lad."

The laughter ceased--failed ridiculously. It proved my uncle's mastery
of the situation. T