urned 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.

"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 kilts. He's a little divil of a dandy then, I'm tellin'
you.