Philip’s face flushed.  Not because of the smuggling; every one did that, only it was considered polite to ignore it; but he was annoyed to perceive how quickly his little cousin had discovered that his practice did not agree with his preaching, and vexed, too, to see how delighted she was to bring out the fact.  He had some little idea, too, that his uncle might make use of his practice as an argument against the preaching he had lately been indulging in, in opposition to Daniel; but Daniel was too far gone in his Hollands-and-water to do more than enunciate his own opinions, which he did with hesitating and laboured distinctness in the following sentence: 

’What I think and say is this.  Laws is made for to keep some folks fra’ harming others.  Press-gangs and coast-guards harm me i’ my business, and keep me fra’ getting what I want.  Theerefore, what I think and say is this:  Measter Cholmley should put down press-gangs and coast-guards.  If that theere isn’t reason I ax yo’ to tell me what is? an’ if Measter Cholmley don’t do what I ax him, he may go whistle for my vote, he may.’

At this period in his conversation, Bell Robson interfered; not in the least from any feeling of disgust or annoyance, or dread of what he might say or do if he went on drinking, but simply as a matter of health.  Sylvia, too, was in no way annoyed; not only with her father, but with every man whom she knew, excepting her cousin Philip, was it a matter of course to drink till their ideas became confused.  So she simply put her wheel aside, as preparatory to going to bed, when her mother said, in a more decided tone than that which she had used on any other occasion but this, and similar ones-

‘Come, measter, you’ve had as much as is good for you.’

‘Let a’ be!  Let a’ be,’ said he, clutching at the bottle of spirits, but perhaps rather more good-humoured with what he had drunk than he was before; he jerked a little more into his glass before his wife carried it off, and locked it up in the cupboard, putting the key in her pocket, and then he said, winking at Philip—­

‘Eh! my man.  Niver gie a woman t’ whip hand o’er yo’!  Yo’ seen what it brings a man to; but for a’ that I’ll vote for Cholmley, an’ d——­t’ press-gang!’

He had to shout out the last after Philip, for Hepburn, really anxious to please his aunt, and disliking drinking habits himself by constitution, was already at the door, and setting out on his return home, thinking, it must be confessed, far more of the character of Sylvia’s shake of the hand than of the parting words of either his uncle or aunt.

CHAPTER V

STORY OF THE PRESS-GANG