yarnin' along o' that there ol' bully."

But the gray little man from St. John's--the gray little red-moled
man--was no old shipmate (I knew), nor any friend at all, else my
uncle would have had him hospitably housed for the night under our
roof.

XI

THE GRAY STRANGER

We sat late by the fire in the best room: into which I must fairly lug
my perverse old uncle by the ears--for (says he) the wear an' tear of
a wooden leg was a harsh thing for a carpet to abide, an' parlor
chairs (says he) was never made for the hulks o' sea-farin' folk.
'Twas late, indeed, when he sent young Cather off to bed, with a
warning to be up betimes, or go hungry, and bade me into the
dining-room, as was our custom, to set out his bottle and glass. I
turned the lamp high, and threw birch on the fire, and lifted his
gouty wooden leg to the stool, and got his bottle and little brown
jug, wondering, all the while, that my uncle was downcast neither by
the wind nor the singular intrusion of the gray stranger. 'Twas a new
thing in my life--a grateful change, for heretofore, in black gales,
blowing in the night, with the thunder of waters under the window, it
had been my duty to stand by, giving the comfort of my presence to the
old man's melancholy and terror. 'Twas the company of the tutor,
thinks I, and I was glad that the congenial fellow was come from a far
place, escape cut off.

"Wonderful late," says my uncle.

"No," said I; "not late for windy nights."

"Too late for lads," says he, uneasily.

I poured his glass of rum.

"Think you, Dannie," my uncle inquired, "that he've the makin's of a
fair rascal?"

"An' who?" says I, the stranger in mind.

"The tutor."

"I'm hopin' _not_!" I cried.

"Ay," says my uncle, an eye half closed; "but think you he _would_
make a rascal--with clever management?"

"'Twould never come t' pass, sir."

My uncle sipped his rum in a muse.

"Uncle Nick," I complained, "leave un be."

"'Tis a hard world, Dannie," he replied.

"Do you leave un be!" I expostulated.

My uncle ignored me. "He've a eye, Dannie," says he, immersed in
villanous calculation; "he've a dark eye. I 'low it _might_ be
managed."

'Twas an uncomfortable suspicion thus implanted; and 'twas an unhappy
outlook disclosed--were my uncle to work his will upon the helpless
fellow.

"Uncle Nick, you'll not mislead un?"

"Bein' under oath," my uncle answered, with the accent and glance of
tenderest affection, "I'll ke