"Most miserable, infernal, impossible night ever made, Mr.
Pemberton! Forty thousand devils---Ah! Give me some of that, hot!
Detestable night!"
"It is so, Andrew," said Pemberton, soothing and agreeable. "You're
near right."
"As referring to weather," said Stevey Todd, "though not putting it
so strong, you might--"
But the newcomer broke in, and beat the table with his fist.
"Weather! No! Not weather. Mr. Pemberton, I'll tell you what's the
matter. Here's my daughter run away to be married with the coolest,
freshest, limber-tongued young codfish that ever escaped salting. Not
if I know it! I'll salt him! I'll pickle him! I will, if my name's
McCulloch."
He puffed hard, and sat down. Stevey Todd looked at Andrew
McCulloch, then he looked at the others and winked cautiously, and
Pemberton winked back. But Captain Tom did not look up. Uncle
Abimelech too kept his eyes on the fire. He seemed to be following
his old train of thought, which Andrew McCulloch's coming had started
again in his mind, for he began:
"Before I was married, her mother she used to throw kettles at me.
They was kettles," he said bitterly, "with spouts and handles. Aye,
afterward she did too, some.
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