The Cruise of the Shining Light. Duncan Norman

      ’Twas not hard to do––not hard to learn: for my uncle was unceasing in solicitous and patient instruction, diligent in observation, as he cruised in those exclusive places to which (somehow) he gained admittance for my sake and a jolly welcome for his own. And ’twas a grateful task, too, to which I heartily gave my interest, for I loved my uncle. ’Twas his way of teaching me not only the gentlemanly art of dealing with menials, as he had observed it, but, on his part, as he stood stiff and grave, the proper attitude of a servant towards his master. In these days, long distant from the first strange years of my life, I am glad that I was not wilful with him––glad that I did not obstinately resist the folly and boredom of the thing, as I was inclined to do. But, indeed, it must not be counted to me for virtue; for my uncle had a ready hand, though three fingers were missing, and to this day I remember the odd red mark it left (the thumb, forefinger, and palm), when, upon occasion, it fell upon me.

      “Elihu,” says I, “fetch this man a dram o’ your best Jamaica!”

      Upon the disappearance of Elihu Wall, my uncle and I would resume intimate relations.

      “You done well, Dannie!” cries he, gleefully rubbing his hands. “I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better.”

      We were both mightily proud.

      “Dannie,” says he, presently, with gleeful interest, “give un a good one when he gets back. Like a gentleman, Dannie. Just t’ show un what you can do.”

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      Enter Elihu Wall.

      “What the devil d’ye mean?” says I, in wrath. “Eh? What the devil d’ye mean?”

      “Yes, sir,” says Elihu Wall. “Sorry, sir. Very, sir.”

      “Devil take your sorrow!” says I.

      I would then slip the old fellow a bit of silver, as I was bidden, and he would obsequiously depart.[3]

      “You done well, Dannie!” cries my uncle again, in delight. “Lord! but ’twas grand! You done wonderful well! I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better. I wisht ol’ Chesterfield was here t’ see. Ecod!” he chuckles, with a rub at his nose, gazing upon me with affectionate admiration, in which was no small dash of awe, “you done it well, my lad! I’ve heard Sir Harry say more, mark you! but I’ve never knowed un t’ do it better. More, Dannie, but t’ less purpose. Ah, Dannie,” says he, fondly, “they’s the makin’s of a gentleman in you!”

      I was pleased––to be sure!

      “An’ I ’low, by an’ all,” my uncle would boast, scratching his head in high gratification, “that I’m a-fetchin’ ye up very well!”

      ’Twas hard on old Elihu Wall––this unearned abuse. But Elihu and I were fast friends, nevertheless: he sped many a wearisome hour for me when my uncle was upon his grim, mysterious business in the city; 50 and I had long ago told him that he must not grieve, whatever I said––however caustic and unkind the words––because my uncle’s whims must be humored, which was the end to be served by us both. With this assurance of good feeling, old Elihu Wall was content. He took my insolence in good part, playing the game cheerfully: knowing that the hard words were uttered without intention to wound, but only in imitation of gentlemen, from whom Elihu Wall suffered enough, Heaven knows! (as he confided to me) not to mind what I might say.

      I must tell that, once, taken with pain, having overeaten myself, left alone in the hotel at St. John’s, I got out of bed and sought my uncle’s lodgings, which I was never permitted to see. ’Twas a rough search for a sick child to follow through in the night, ending by the water-side––a dismal stair, leading brokenly to a wretched room, situate over a tap-room too low for frequency by us, where women quarrelled with men. Here my uncle sat with his bottle, not yet turned in. He was amazed when I entered, but scolded me not at all; and he gave me brandy to drink, until my head swam, and took me to sleep with him, for the only time in all my life. When I awoke ’twas to disgust with the bed and room in which I lay––with the smell and dirt of the place––the poverty and sordidness, to which I was not used.

      I complained of the housing my uncle had.

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      “Dannie, lad,” says my uncle, sighing unhappily, “the old man’s poor, an’ isn’t able t’ help it.”

      Still I complained.

      “Don’t, Dannie!” says he. “I isn’t able t’ bear it. An’ I’m wishin’ you’d never found out. The old man’s poor––wonderful poor. He’s on’y a hook-an’-line man. For God’s sake ask un no questions!”

      I asked him no questions. …

      Every morning while at St. John’s, my uncle and I must walk the lower streets: my hand in his, when I was a child, and, presently, when I was grown into a lad, myself at his heels. Upon these occasions I must be clad and conduct myself thus and so, with utmost particularity: must be combed and brushed, and carry my head bravely, and square my shoulders, and turn out my toes, and cap my crown so that my unspeakably wilful hair, which was never clipped short, as I would have it, would appear in disarray. Never once did I pass the anxious inspection without needing a whisk behind, or, it may be, here and there, a touch of my uncle’s thick finger, which seemed, somehow, infinitely tender at that moment.

      “I’m wantin’ ye, Dannie,” says he, “t’ look like a gentleman the day. They’ll be a thing come t’ pass, come a day.”

      There invariably came a thing to pass––a singular thing, which I conceived to be the object of these pilgrimages; being this: that when in the course of our peregrinations we came to the crossing of King 52 Street with Water he would never fail to pause, tap-tap a particular stone of the walk, and break into muttered imprecations, continuing until folk stared and heads were put out of the windows. In so far as one might discern, there was nothing in that busy neighborhood to excite the ill-temper of any man; but at such times, as though courting the curious remark he attracted, my uncle’s staff would strike the pavement with an angry pat, his head wag and nod, his eyes malevolently flash, and he would then so hasten his steps that ’twas no easy matter to keep pace with him, until, once past, he would again turn placid and slow.

      “There you haves it, Dannie!” he would chuckle. “There you haves it!”

      ’Twas all a mystery.

      My uncle must once get very drunk at St. John’s––this for a day and a night, during which I must not leave my quarters. These were times of terror––and of loneliness: for it seemed to my childish mind that when my uncle was drunk I had no friend at all. But ’twas all plain sailing afterwards––a sober, cheerful guardian, restless to be off to Twist Tickle. My uncle would buy new outfits for me at the shops, arrange the regular shipment of such delicacies as the St. John’s markets afforded according to the season, seek gifts with which to delight and profit me, gather the news of fashion, lie in wait for dropped hints as to the manners and customs of gentlemen, procure his allowance 53 of whiskey for the six months to come: in every way providing for my happiness and well-being and for such meagre comfort as he would allow himself.

      Then off to Twist Tickle: and glad we were of it when the Lake got beyond the narrows and the big, clean, clear-aired sea lay ahead!