rink himself drunk like a boy
unused to liquor! Faugh! 'Twas a sickening sight. He would involve
himself in some drunken brawl, I made sure, when even I, a child,
knew better than to misuse the black bottle in this unkind way.
'Twas the passage from Spain--and the rocks of this and the rocks of
that--and 'twas the virtues of a fore-and-after and the vices of
an English square rig for the foremast. He'd stand by the square rig;
and there were Newfoundlanders at his table to dispute the opinion.
The good Lord only knew what would come of it! And the rain was on
the panes, and the night was black, and the wind was playing
devil-tricks on the great sea, where square-rigged foremasts and
fore-and-afters were fighting for their lives. A dirty night at sea--a
dirty night, God help us!

"Skipper Nicholas," says Tom Bull, in an anxious whisper, "I'm tied up
t' Judby's wharf, bound out at dawn, if the wind holds. I 'low you is
in trouble, lad, along o' them jools. An' if you wants t' cut an'
run--"

In the pause my uncle scowled.

--"The little _Good Omen_," says Tom Bull, under his breath, "is
your'n t' command!"

'Twas kind of intention, no doubt, but done in folly--in stupid (if
not befuddled) misconception of the old man's mettle. My uncle sat
quite still, frowning into his glass; the purple color crept into the
long, crescent scar of his scalp, his unkempt beard bristled like a
boar's back, the flesh of his cheeks, in composure of a ruddy hue,
turned a spotty crimson and white, with the web of veins swelling
ominously. All the storm signals I had, with the acumen of the child
who suffers unerring discipline, mastered to that hour were at the
mast-head, prognosticating a rare explosion of rage. But there was no
stirring on my uncle's part; he continued to stare into his glass,
with his hairy brows drawn quite over his eyes.

The blundering fellow leaned close to my uncle's ear. "If 'tis
turn-tail or chokee for you, along o' them jools," says he, "I'll put
you across--"

My uncle's eyes shifted to his staff.

--"T' the Frenchmen--"

My uncle's great right hand was softly approaching his staff.

--"Well," says the blundering Tom Bull, "give the old girl a wind with
some slap to it, I'll put you across in--"

My uncle fetched him a smart crack on the pate, so that the man leaped
away, in indignation, and vigorously rubbed his head, but durst not
swear (for he was a Methodist), and, being thus desperately situated,