t tell that at the Anchor and Chain my uncle blundered in
with Tom Bull, of the _Green Billow_, the owner and skipper thereof,
trading the ports of the West Coast, then coast-wise, but (I fancy)
not averse to a smuggling opportunity, both ways, with the French
Islands to the south of us; at any rate, 'twas plain, before the
talk was over, that he needed no lights to make the harbor of
St.-Pierre, Miquelon, of a dark time. 'Twas a red-whiskered, flaring,
bulbous-nosed giant, with infantile eyes, containing more of wonder
and patience than men need. He was clad in yellow oil-skins, a-drip,
glistening in the light of the lamps, for he was newly come in from
the rain: a bitter night, the wind in the northeast, with a black
fog abroad (I remember it well)--a wet, black night, the rain
driving past the red-curtained windows of the Anchor and Chain, the
streets swept clean of men, ourselves light-hearted and warm,
indifferent, being ashore from the wind, the cloudy night, the
vicious, crested waves of the open, where men must never laugh nor
touch a glass.

They must have a dram together in a stall removed from the congregation
of steaming men at the long bar. And when the maid had fetched the
bottle, Tom Bull raised it, regarded it doubtfully, cocked his head,
looked my shamefaced uncle in the eye.

"An' what might this be?" says he.

"'Tis knowed hereabouts, in the langwitch o' waterside widows,"
replies my uncle, mildly, "as a bottle o' Cheap an' Nasty."

Tom Bull put the bottle aside.

"_Tis_ cheap, I'll be bound," says my uncle; "but 'tis not so
wonderful nasty, Tom," he grieved, "when 'tis the best t' be had."

"Skipper Nicholas," says Tom, in wonder, "wasn't you give aforetime t'
the use o' Long Tom?"

My uncle nodded.

"Dear man!" Tom Bull sighed.

My uncle looked away. Tom Bull seemed now first to observe his
impoverished appearance, and attacked it with frankly curious eyes,
which roamed without shame over my uncle's shrinking person; and my
uncle winced under this inquisition.

"Pour your liquor," growls he, "an' be content!"

Tom Bull grasped the bottle, unafraid of the contents, unabashed by
the rebuke. "An' Skipper Nicholas," asks he, "where did you manage t'
pick up the young feller?"

My uncle would not attend.

"Eh?" Tom Bull persisted. "Where did you come across o' he?"

"This," says my uncle, with a gentle tug at my ear, "is Dannie."

"Ay; but whose young one?"

"Tom Callaway's son."