k; ay, no doubt: I was in a glow of content
with this new fortune.

'Tis strange how the affections fall....

* * * * *

My tutor, John Cather, as his name turned out to be, was older than
I, after all--my elder by five years, I fancied, with age-wise ways
and a proud glance to overawe my youth, were need of it to come: a
slight, dark-skinned man, clean-featured, lean-cheeked, full-lipped,
with restless dark eyes, thin, olive-tinted hands, black hair,
worn overlong, parted in the manner of a maid and falling upon his
brow in glossy waves, which he would ruffle into disorder, with
the air of knowing what he was about. He was clad all in black, for
the reason, he said, that he aspired to holy orders: well-kept black,
edged with linen of the whitest, and not ill cut, according to my
uncle's fashion-plates, but sadly worn at the seams and everywhere
brushed near threadbare. Now sprawled, hands pocketed, in a
great-chair under the lamp, indolent with accomplished grace (it
seemed), one long leg thrown languidly over the other, the slender
foot never at rest, he was postured with that perfection of ease and
gentility into which my uncle, watchful observer of the manners of
the world he walked in, had many a time endeavored to command me, but
with the most indifferent success. I listened to my tutor's airy,
rambling chit-chat of the day's adventures, captivated by the
readiness and wit and genial outlook; the manner of it being new to
my experience, the accompaniment of easy laughter a grateful
enlightenment in a land where folk went soberly. And then and
there--I remember, as 'twere an hour gone, the gale and the
lamplight and the laughter of that time--I conceived for him an
enduring admiration.

Taken by an anxious thought I whispered in my uncle's ear, having him
bend his monstrous head close for secrecy.

"Eh?" says he.

I repeated the question.

"Steerage, lad," he answered. "Tut!" he growled, "none o' that, now!
'Twill be steerage."

It grieved me to know it.

"An' now, Dannie, lad," quoth my uncle, aloud, with a thirsty rubbing
of the hands and a grin to match, "fetch the bottle. The bottle, b'y!
'Tis time for growed men t' pledge the v'y'ge. A bit nippy, parson
man? The bottle, Dannie!"

"Bottle?" cries my tutor. "Why, really, you know, Skipper Nicholas,
I--"

"Is you much give t' the use o' fo'c's'les, parson?" my uncle
interrupted.

My tutor was not.

"T