itigated, as with all seafaring men.
But I might stand obstinate for a moment--a moment of grace. And upon
the wall behind his chair, hanging in the dimmer light, was a colored
print portraying a blue sea, spread with rank upon rank of accurately
measured waves, each with its tiny cap of foam, stretching without
diminution to the horizon, upon which was perched a full-rigged ship,
a geometrical triumph; and from this vessel came by small-boat to the
strand a company of accurately moulded, accurately featured,
accurately tailored fellows, pulling with perfect accuracy in every
respect. I shall never forget the geometrical gentleman upon that
geometrically tempestuous sea, for as I stood sullen before my uncle
they provided the only distraction at hand.

"Come, Daniel!" says he, in a little flare of wrath; "is he a
rascal?"

"Well," says I, defiantly, "I've heard un lied about."

"Wrong!" roars my uncle. "Try again, sir! Is ol' Nicholas Top a
rascal?"

There was no help for it. I must say the unkind words or be thrashed
for an obstinate whelp.

"A damned rascal, sir!" says I.

"Co'-_rect_!" cries my uncle, delighted.[2]

And now, presently, my uncle would drawl, "Well, Dannie, lad, you
might 's well measure out the other," and when I had with care poured
his last dram would send me off to bed. Sometimes he would have me say
my prayers at his knee--not often--most when high winds, without rain,
shook our windows and sang mournfully past the cottage, and he was
unnerved by the night. "The wind's high the night," says he, with an
anxious frown; "an' Dannie," says he, laying a hand upon my head, "you
might 's well overhaul that there

"'_Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me,
Bless Thy little lamb to-night,_'

afore you turns in. 'Twill do you good, an' 'twon't manage t' do me no
harm." And this done I would off to bed; but had no sooner bade him
good-night, got my gruff response, and come to the foot of the stair,
than, turning to say good-night again, I would find myself forgot. My
uncle would be sunk dejectedly in his great chair, his scarred face
drawn and woful. I see him now--under the lamp--a gray, monstrous,
despairing man, a bottle beside him, the familiar things of the place
in shadow. The old feeling of wonder and regret returns. I sigh--as
then, a child, bound up to a lonely chamber in the night, I sighed.

"Good-night, sir!"

There was no response; but he would look in u