Фредерик Марриет
Jacob Faithful
When Stapleton had concluded his narrative, he smoked his pipe in silence. Mary sat at the table, with her hands pressed to her temples, apparently in deep thought; and I felt anything but communicative. In half-an-hour the pot of beer was finished, and Stapleton rose.
“Come, Mary, don’t be thinking so much; let’s all go to bed. Show Jacob his room, and then come up.”
“Jacob can find his own room, father,” replied Mary, “without my showing him; he knows the kitchen, and there is but one other below.”
I took my candle, wished them good night, and went to my bed, which, although very homely, was at all events comfortable.
Chapter Twenty Four
The warmth of my gratitude proved by a very cold test—The road to fortune may sometimes lead over a bridge of ice—Mine lay under it—Amor Vincet everything but my obstinacy, which young Tom and the old Dominie in the sequel will prove to their cost
For many days the frost continued, until at last the river was frozen over, and all communication by it was stopped. Stapleton’s money ran short, our fare became very indifferent, and Mary declared that we must all go begging with the market gardeners if it lasted much longer.
“I must go and call upon Mr Turnbull, and ax him to help us,” said Stapleton, one day, pulling his last shilling out and laying it on the table. “I’m cleaned out; but he’s a good gentleman, and will lend me a trifle.” In the afternoon Stapleton returned, and I saw by his looks that he had been successful. “Jacob,” said he, “Mr Turnbull desires that you will breakfast with him to-morrow morning, as he wishes to see you.”
I set off accordingly at daylight the next morning, and was in good time for breakfast. Mr Turnbull was as kind as ever, and began telling me long stories about the ice in the northern regions.
“By-the-by, I hear there is an ox to be roasted whole, Jacob, a little above London Bridge; suppose we go and see the fun.”
I consented, and we took the Brentford coach, and were put down at the corner of Queen Street, from thence we walked to the river. The scene was very amusing and exciting. Booths were erected on the ice, in every direction, with flags flying, people walking, and some skating, although the ice was too rough for that pastime. The whole river was crowded with people, who now walked in security over where they, a month before, would have met with death. Here and there smoke ascended from various fires, on which sausages and other eatables were cooking; but the great attraction was the ox roasting whole, close to the centre pier of the bridge. Although the ice appeared to have fallen at the spot where so many hundreds were assembled, yet as it was now four or five feet thick, there was no danger. Here and there, indeed, were what were called rotten places, where the ice was not sound; but these were intimated by placards, warning people not to approach too near; and close to them were ropes and poles for succour, if required. We amused ourselves for some time with the gaiety of the scene, for the sun shone out brightly, and the sky was clear. The wind was fresh from the northward, and piercing cold in the shade, the thermometer being then, it was said, twenty-eight degrees below the freezing point. We had been on the ice about three hours, amusing ourselves, when Mr Turnbull proposed our going home, and we walked up the river towards Blackfriars Bridge, where we proposed to land, and take the coach at Charing Cross.
“I wonder how the tide is now,” observed Mr Turnbull to me; “it would be rather puzzling to find out.”
“Not if I can find a hole,” replied I, looking for one. “Stop, here is one.” I threw in a piece of ice, and found that it was strong ebb. We continued our walk over the ice, which was now very rough, when Mr Turnbull’s hat fell off, and the wind catching it, it blew away, skimming across the ice at a rapid rate. Mr Turnbull and I gave chase, but could scarcely keep up with it, and, at all events, could not overtake it. Many people on the river laughed as we passed, and watched us in our chase. Mr Turnbull was the foremost, and, heedless in the pursuit, did not observe a large surface of rotten ice before him; neither did I, until all at once I heard it break and saw Mr Turnbull fall in and disappear. Many people were close to us, and a rope was laid across the spot to designate the danger. I did not hesitate—I loved Mr Turnbull, and my love and my feelings of resentment were equally potent. I seized the bight of the rope, twisted it round my arm, and plunged in after, recollecting it was ebb tide: fortunate for Mr Turnbull it was that he had accidentally put the question. I sank under the ice, and pushed down the stream, and in a few seconds felt myself grappled by him I sought, and at almost the same time, the rope hauling in from above. As soon as they found there was resistance, they knew that I, at least, was attached to it, and they hauled in quicker, not, however, until I had lost my recollection. Still I clung to the rope with the force of a drowning man, and Mr Turnbull did the same to me, and we shortly made our appearance at the hole in which we had been plunged. A ladder was thrown across, and two of the men of the Humane Society came to our assistance, pulled us out, and laid us upon it. They then drew back and hauled us on the ladder to a more secure situation. We were both still senseless; but having been taken to a public-house on the river-side, were put to bed, and medical advice having been procured, were soon restored. The next morning we were able to return in a chaise to Brentford, where our absence had created the greatest alarm. Mr Turnbull spoke but little the whole time; but he often pressed my hand, and when I requested him to drop me at Fulham, that I might let Stapleton and his daughter know that I was safe, he consented, saying, “God bless you, my fine boy; I will see you soon.”
When I went up the stairs of Stapleton’s lodgings, I found Mary by herself; she started up as soon as she saw me.
“Where have you been?” said she, half crying, half smiling.
“Under the ice,” I replied, “and only thawed again this morning.”
“Are you in earnest, Jacob?” said she; “now don’t plague and frighten me, I’ve been too frightened already; I never slept a wink last night;” I then told her the circumstances which had occurred. “I was sure something had happened,” she replied. “I told my father so, but he wouldn’t believe it. You promised to be at home to give me my lesson, and I know you never break your word; but my father smoked away, and said, that when boys are amused, they forget their promises, and that it was nothing but human natur’. Oh, Jacob, I’m so glad you’re back again, and after what has happened, I don’t mind your kissing me for once.” And Mary held her face towards me, and returned my kiss.
“There, that must last you a long while, recollect,” said she, laughing; “you must not think of another until you’re under the ice again.”
“Then I trust it will be the last,” replied I, laughing.
“You are not in love with me, Jacob, that’s clear, or you would not have made that answer,” replied Mary.
I had seen a great deal of Mary, and though she certainly was a great flirt, yet she had many excellent and amiable qualities. For the first week after her father had given us the history of his life, his remarks upon her mother appeared to have made a decided impression upon her, and her conduct was much more staid and demure; but as the remembrance wore off, so did her conduct become coquettish and flirting as before; still, it was impossible not to be fond of her, and even with all her caprice there was such a fund of real good feeling and amiableness, which, when called forth, was certain to appear, that I often thought how dangerous and captivating a girl she would be when she grew up. I had again produced the books, which I had thrown aside with disgust, to teach her to read and write. Her improvement was rapid, and would have been still more so if she had not been just as busy in trying to make me fond of her as she was in surmounting the difficulties of her lessons. But she was very young; and although, as her father declared, it was her natur’ to run after the men, there was every reason to hope that a year or two would render her less volatile, and add to those sterling good qualities which she really possessed. In heart and feeling she was a modest girl, although the buoyancy of her spirits often carried her beyond the bounds prescribed by decorum, and often called forth a blush upon her own animated countenance, when her good sense, or the remarks of others, reminded her of her having committed herself. It was impossible to know Mary and not like her, although, at a casual meeting, a rigid person might go away with an impression by no means favourable. As for myself, I must say, that the more I was in her company the more I was attached to her, and the more I respected her.
Old Stapleton came home in the evening. He had, as usual, been smoking, and thinking of human natur’, at the Feathers public-house. I told him what had happened, and upon the strength of it he sent for an extra pot of beer for Mary and me, which he insisted upon our drinking between us—a greater proof of good-will on his part could not have been given. Although Captain Turnbull appeared to have recovered from the effects of the accident, yet it seemed that such was not the case, as the morning after his arrival he was taken ill with shivering and pains in his loins, which ended in ague and fever, and he did not quit his bed for three or four weeks. I, on the contrary, felt no ill effects; but the constitution of a youth is better able to meet such violent shocks than that of a man of sixty years old, already sapped by exposure and fatigue. As the frost still continued, I complied with Captain Turnbull’s request to come up and stay with him, and for many days, until he was able to leave his bed, I was his constant nurse. The general theme of his conversation was on my future prospects, and a wish that I would embark in some pursuit or profession more likely to raise me in the world; but on this head I was positive, and also another point, which was, that I would in future put myself under an obligation to no one. I could not erase from my memory the injuries I had received, and my vindictive spirit continually brooded over them. I was resolved to be independent and free. I felt that in the company I was in I was with my equals, or, if there were any superiority, it was on my part, arising from education, and I never would submit to be again in the society of those above me, in which I was admitted as a favour, and by the major part looked down upon, and at the same time liable, as I had once been, to be turned out with contumely on the first moment of caprice. Still, I was very fond of Captain Turnbull. He had always been kind to me, spoke to me on terms of equality, and had behaved with consistency, and my feelings towards him since the accident had consequently strengthened; but we always feel an increased regard towards those to whom we have been of service, and my pride was softened by the reflection that, whatever might be Mr Turnbull’s good-will towards me, he never could, even if I would permit it, repay me for the life which I had preserved. Towards him I felt unbounded regard; towards those who had ill-treated me, unlimited hatred; towards the world in general a mixture of feeling which I could hardly analyse; and, as far as regarded myself, a love of liberty and independence, which nothing would ever have induced me to compromise. As I did not wish to hurt Captain Turnbull’s feelings by a direct refusal to all his proffers of service, and remarks upon the advantages which might arise, I generally made an evasive answer; but when, on the day proposed for my departure, he at once came to the point, offering me everything, and observing that he was childless, and, therefore, my acceptance of his offer would be injurious to nobody; when he took me by the hand, and drawing me near to him, passed his arm round me, and spoke to me in the kind accents of a father, almost entreating me to consent—the tears of gratitude coursed each other rapidly down my cheeks, but my resolution was no less firm—although it was with a faltering, voice that I replied, “You have been very kind to me, sir—very kind—and I shall never forget it; and I hope I shall deserve it—but—Mr Drummond, and Mrs Drummond, and Sarah, were also kind to me—very kind to me—you know the rest. I will remain as I am, if you please; and if you wish to do me a kindness; if you wish me to love you, as I really do, let me be as I am—free and independent. I beg it of you as the greatest favour that you can possibly confer on me—the only favour which I can accept, or shall be truly thankful for.”
Captain Turnbull was some minutes before he could reply. He then said—“I see it is useless, and I will not tease you any more; but, Jacob, do not let the fire of injustice which you have received from your fellow-creatures prey so much upon your mind, or induce you to form the mistaken idea that the world is bad. As you live on, you will find much good; and recollect, that those who injured you, from the misrepresentation of others, have been willing, and have offered, to repair their fault. They can do no more, and I wish you could get over this vindictive feeling. Recollect, we must forgive, as we hope to be forgiven.”
“I do sometimes,” said I, “for Sarah’s sake—I can’t always.”
“But you ought to forgive, for other reasons, Jacob.”
“I know I ought—but if I cannot, I cannot.”
“Nay, my boy, I never heard you talk so—I was going to say—wickedly. Do you not perceive that you are now in error? You will not abandon a feeling which your own good sense and religion tell you to be wrong—you cling to it—and yet you will admit of no excuse for the errors of others.”
“I feel what you say—and the truth of it, sir,” replied I “but I cannot combat the feeling. I will, therefore, admit every excuse you please for the faults of others; but at the same time, I am surely not to be blamed if I refuse to put myself in a situation where I am again liable to meet with mortification. Surely I am not to be censured, if I prefer to work for my bread after my own fashion, and prefer the river to dry land?”
“No, that I acknowledge; but what I dislike in the choice is, that it is dictated by feelings of resentment.”
“What’s done can’t be helped,” replied I, quickly, wishing to break off the conversation.
“Very true, Jacob; but I follow that up with another of your remarks, which is, ‘Better luck next time.’ God bless you, my boy; take care of yourself, and don’t get under the ice again!”
“For you I would to-morrow,” replied I, taking the proffered hand: “but if I could only see that Hodgson near a hole—”
“You’d not push him in?”
“Indeed I would,” replied I, bitterly.
“Jacob, you would not, I tell you—you think so now, but if you saw him in distress you would assist him as you did me. I know you, my boy, better than you know yourself.”
Whether Captain Turnbull or I were right remains to be proved in the sequel. We then shook hands, and I hastened away to see Mary, whom I had often thought of during my absence.
“Who do you think has been here?” said Mary, after our first greeting.
“I cannot guess,” replied I. “Not old Tom and his son?”
“No; I don’t think it was old Tom, but it was such an old quiz—with such a nose—O heavens! I thought I should have died with laughing as soon as he went downstairs. Do you know, Jacob, that I made love to him, just to see how he’d take it. You know who it is now?”
“O yes! you mean the Dominie, my schoolmaster.”
“Yes, he told me so; and I talked so much about you, and about your teaching me to read and write, and how fond I was of learning, and how I should like to be married to an elderly man who was a great scholar, who would teach me Latin and Greek, that the old gentleman became quite chatty, and sat for two hours talking to me. He desired me to say that he should call here to-morrow afternoon, and I begged him to stay the evening, as you are to have two more of your friends here. Now, who do you think are those?”
“I have no others, except old Tom Beazeley and his son.”
“Well, it is your old Tom after all, and a nice old fellow he is, although I would not like him for a husband; but as for his son—he’s a lad after my own heart—I’m quite in love with him.”
“Your love will do you no harm, Mary; but, recollect, what may be a joke to you may not be so to other people. As for the Dominie meeting old Beazeley and his son, I don’t exactly know how that will suit, for I doubt if he will like to see them.”
“Why not?” inquired Mary.
Upon a promise never to hint at them, I briefly stated the circumstances attending the worthy man’s voyage on board of the lighter. Mary paused, and then said, “Jacob, did we not read the last time that the most dangerous rocks to men were wine and women?”
“Yes, we did, if I recollect right.”
“Humph,” said she; “the old gentleman has given plenty of lessons in his time, and it appears that he has received one.”
“We may do so to the last day of our existence, Mary.”
“Well, he is a very clever, learned man, I’ve no doubt, and looks down upon all of us (not you, Jacob) as silly people. I’ll try if I can’t give him a lesson.”
“You, Mary, what can you teach him?”
“Never mind, we shall see;” and Mary turned the discourse on her father. “You know, I suppose, that father is gone up to Mr Turnbull’s.”
“No, I did not.”
“Yes, he has; he was desired to go there this morning, and hasn’t been back since. Jacob, I hope you won’t be so foolish again, for I don’t want to lose my master.”
“Oh, never fear; I shall teach you all you want to know before I die,” I replied.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” replied Mary; “how do you know how much I may wish to have of your company?”
“Well, if I walk off in a hurry, I’ll make you over to young Tom Beazeley. You’re half in love with him already, you know,” replied I, laughing.
“Well, he is a nice fellow,” replied she; “he laughs more than you do, Jacob.”
“He has suffered less,” replied I, gloomily, calling to mind what had occurred; “but, Mary, he is a fine young man, and a good-hearted, clever fellow to boot; and when you do know him, you will like him very much.” As I said this, I heard her father coming up stairs; he came in high good-humour with his interview with Captain Turnbull, called for his pipe and pot, and was excessively fluent upon “human natur’.”
Chapter Twenty Five
“The feast of reason and the flow of soul”—Stapleton, on human nature, proves the former; the Dominie, in his melting mood, the latter—Sall’s shoe particularly noted, and the true “reading made easy” of a mind at ease, by Old Tom
The afternoon of the next day I heard a well-known voice, which carolled forth, as Mary huddled up her books, and put them out of the way; for at that time I was, as usual, giving her a lesson:—
“And many strange sights I’ve seen,
And long I’ve been a rover,
And everywhere I’ve been,
But now the wars are over.
I’ve been across the line,
Where the sun will burn your nose off;
And I’ve been in northern climes,
Where the frost would bite your toes off.
Fal de ral, fal de ral, fal de ral de liddy.”
“Heave a-head, Tom, and let me stump up at my leisure. It’s like warping ’gainst wind and tide with me—and I gets up about as fast as lawyers go to heaven.”
I thought when Tom came up first that he had been at unusual trouble in setting off his person, and certainly a better-looking, frank, open, merry countenance was seldom to be seen. In person he was about an inch taller than I, athletic, and well formed. He made up to Mary, who, perceiving his impatience, and either to check him before me, or else from her usual feeling of coquetry, received him rather distantly, and went up to old Tom, with whom she shook hands warmly.
“Whew! what’s in the wind now, Jacob? Why, we parted the best friends in the world,” said Tom, looking at Mary.
“Sheer off yourself, Tom,” replied I, laughing; “and you’ll see that she’ll come to again.”
“Oh, oh! so the wind’s in that quarter, is it?” replied Tom. “With all my heart—I can show false colours as well as she can. But I say, Jacob, before I begin my manoeuvres, tell me if you wish me to hoist the neutral flag—for I won’t interfere with you.”
“Here’s my hand upon it, Tom, that the coast is clear as far as I’m concerned; but take care—she’s a clipper, and not unlikely to slip through your fingers, even when you have her under your lee, within hail.”
“Let me alone, Jacob, for that.”
“And more, Tom, when you’re in possession of her, she will require a good man at the helm.”
“Then she’s just the craft after my fancy. I hate your steady, slow-sailing craft, that will steer themselves, almost; give me one that requires to be managed by a man and a seaman.”
“If well manned, she will do anything, depend upon it, Tom, for she’s as sound below as possible; and although she is down to her bearings on the puff of the moment, yet she’d not careen further.”
“Well, then, Jacob, all’s right; and now you’ve told me what tack she’s on, see if I don’t shape a course to cut her off.”
“Well, Jacob, my good boy, so you’ve been under the water again; I thought you had enough of it when Fleming gave you such a twist; but, however, this time you went to sarve a friend, which was all right. My sarvice to you Mr Stapleton,” continued old Tom, as Stapleton made his appearance. “I was talking to Jacob about his last dive.”
“Nothing but human natur’,” replied Stapleton.
“Well, now,” replied old Tom, “I consider that going plump into the river, when covered with ice, to be quite contrary to human natur’.”
“But not to save a friend, father?”
“No—because, that be Jacob’s nature; so you see one nature conquered the other, and that’s the whole long and short of it.”
“Well, now, suppose we sit down and make ourselves comfortable,” observed Stapleton; “but here be somebody else coming up—who can it be?”
“I say, old codger, considering you be as deaf as a post, you hears pretty well,” said old Tom.
“Yes, I hear very well in the house, provided people don’t speak loud.”
“Well, that’s a queer sort of deafness; I think we are all troubled with the same complaint,” cried Tom, laughing.
During this remark, the Dominie made his appearance. “Salve Domine,” said I upon his entering, taking my worthy pedagogue by the hand.
“Et tu quoque, fili mi, Jacobe! But whom have we here? the deaf man, the maiden, and—ehu!—the old man called old Tom, and likewise the young Tom;” and the Dominie looked very grave.
“Nay, sir,” said young Tom, going up to the Dominie; “I know you are angry with us, because we both drank too much when we were last in your company; but we promise—don’t we father?—not to do so again.”
This judicious reply of young Tom’s put the Dominie more at his ease; what he most feared was raillery and exposure on their parts.
“Very true, old gentleman; Tom and I did bowse our jibs up a little too taut when we last met—but what then?—there was the grog, and there was nothing to do.”
“All human natur’,” observed Stapleton.
“Come, sir, you have not said one word to me,” said Mary, going up to the Dominie. “Now you must sit down by me, and take care of me, and see that they all behave themselves and keep sober.”
The Dominie cast a look at Mary, which was intended for her alone, but which was not unperceived by young Tom or me. “We shall have some fun, Jacob,” said he, aside, as we all sat down to the table, which just admitted six, with close stowage. The Dominie on one side of Mary, Tom on the other, Stapleton next to Tom, then I and old Tom, who closed in on the other side of the Dominie, putting one of his timber toes on the old gentleman’s corns, which induced him to lift up his leg in a hurry, and draw his chair still closer to Mary, to avoid a repetition of the accident; while old Tom was axing pardon, and Stapleton demonstrating that, on the part of old Tom, not to feel with a wooden leg, and on the part of the Dominie, to feel with a bad corn, was all nothing but “human natur’.” At last we were all seated, and Mary, who had provided for the evening, produced two or three pots of beer, a bottle of spirits, pipes, and tobacco.
“Liberty Hall—I smokes,” said Stapleton, lighting his pipe, and falling back on his chair.
“I’ll put a bit of clay in my mouth too,” followed up old Tom; “it makes one thirsty, and enjoy one’s liquor.”
“Well, I malts,” said Tom, reaching a pot of porter, and taking a long pull. “What do you do, Jacob?”
“I shall wait a little, Tom.”
“And what do you do, sir?” said Mary to the Dominie. The Dominie shook his head. “Nay but you must—or I shall think you do not like my company. Come, let me fill a pipe for you.” Mary filled a pipe, and handed it to the Dominie, who hesitated, looked at her, and was overcome. He lighted it, and smoked furiously.
“The ice is breaking up—we shall have a change of weather—the moon quarters to-morrow,” observed old Tom, puffing between every observation; “and then honest men may earn their bread again. Bad times for you, old codger, heh!” continued he, addressing Stapleton. Stapleton nodded an assent through the smoke, which was first perceived by old Tom. “Well, he ar’nt deaf, a’ter all; I thought he was only shamming a bit. I say, Jacob, this is the weather to blow your fingers, and make your eyes bright.”
“Rather to blow a cloud and make your eyes water,” replied Tom, taking up the pot: “I’m just as thirsty with swallowing smoke, as if I had a pipe myself—at all events, I pipe my eye. Jacob,” continued Tom, to me apart, “do look how the old gentleman is funking Mary, and casting sheeps’ eyes at her through the smoke.”
“He appears as if he were inclined to board her in the smoke,” replied I.
“Yes, and she to make no fight of it, but surrender immediately,” said Tom.
“Don’t you believe it, Tom; I know her better; she wants to laugh at him—nothing more; she winked her eye at me just now, but I would not laugh, as I did not choose that the old gentleman should be trifled with. I will tax her severely to-morrow.”
During all this time old Tom and Stapleton smoked in silence: the Dominie made use of his eyes in dumb parlance to Mary, who answered him with her own bright glances, and Tom and I began to find it rather dull; when at last old Tom’s pipe was exhausted, and he laid it down; “There, I’ll smoke no more—the worst of a pipe is that one can’t smoke and talk at the same time. Mary, my girl, take your eyes off the Dominie’s nose, and hand me that bottle of stuff. What, glass to mix it in; that’s more genteel than we are on board, Tom.” Tom filled a rummer of grog, took half off at a huge sip, and put it down on the table. “Will you do as we do, sir?” said he, addressing the Dominie.
“Nay, friend Dux, nay—pr’ythee persuade me not—avaunt!” and the Dominie, with an appearance of horror, turned away from the bottle handed towards him by old Tom.
“Not drink anything?” said Mary to the Dominie, looking at him with surprise, “but indeed you must, or I shall think you despise us, and do not think us fit to be in your company.”
“Nay, maiden, entreat me not. Ask anything of me but this,” replied the Dominie.
“Ask anything but this—that’s just the way people have of refusing,” replied Mary; “were I to ask anything else, it would be the same answer—‘ask anything but this.’ Now, if you will not drink to please me, I shall quarrel with you. You shall drink a glass, and I’ll mix it for you.” The Dominie shook his head. Mary made a glass of grog, and then put it to her lips. “Now, if you refuse to drink it, after I have tasted it, I’ll never speak to you again.” So saying, she handed the glass to the Dominie.
“Verily, maiden, I must needs refuse, for I did make a mental vow.”
“What vow was that? was it sworn on the Bible?”
“Nay, not on the sacred book, but in my thoughts most solemnly.”
“Oh! I make those vows every day, and never keep one of them; so that won’t do. Now, observe, I give you one more chance. I shall drink a little more, and if you do not immediately put your lips to the same part of the tumbler, I’ll never drink to you again;” Mary put the tumbler again to her lips, drank a little, with her eyes fixed upon the Dominie, who watched her with distended nostrils and muscular agitation of countenance. With her sweetest smile, she handed him the tumbler; the Dominie half held out his hand, withdrew it, put it down again, and by degrees took the tumbler. Mary conquered, and I watched the malice of her look as the liquor trickled down the Dominie’s throat. Tom and I exchanged glances. The Dominie put down the tumbler, and then, looking round, like a guilty person, coloured up to the eyes; but Mary, who perceived that her victory was but half achieved, put her hand upon his shoulder, and asked him to let her taste the grog again. I also, to make him feel more at ease, helped myself to a glass. Tom did the same, and old Tom with more regard to the feelings of the Dominie than in his own bluntness of character I would have given him credit for, said in a quiet tone, “The old gentleman is afraid of grog, because he seed me take a drop too much, but that’s no reason why grog ar’n’t a good thing, and wholesome in moderation. A glass or two is very well, and better still when sweetened by the lips of a pretty girl; and, even if the Dominie does not like it, he’s too much of a gentleman not to give up his dislikes to please a lady. More’s the merit; for, if he did like it, it would be no sacrifice, that’s sartain. Don’t you think so, my old boozer?” continued he, addressing Stapleton, who smoked in silence.
“Human natur’,” replied Stapleton, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and spitting under the table.
“Very true, master; and so here’s to your health, Mr Dominie, and may you never want a pretty girl to talk to, or a glass of grog to drink her health with.”
