But the beginning was not auspicious, and my best intentions presaged
worse. For instance, one morning my uncle was sounding my
convictions--he was ever sounding other people's convictions--"touching
the divine right of kings." Thinking to give strength to contempt for
that doctrine, I applied to it one forcible word I had oft heard used
by gentlemen of the cloth. Had I shot a gun across the table, the
effect could not have been worse. The serving maid fell all of a heap
against the pantry door. Old Tibbie yelped out with laughter, and then
nigh choked. Aunt Ruth glanced from me to Eli Kirke with a timid look
in her eye; but Eli Kirke gazed stolidly into my soul as he would read
whether I scoffed or no.

Thereafter he nailed up a little box to receive fines for blasphemy.

"To be plucked as a brand from the burning," I hear him say, fetching a
mighty sigh. But sweet, calm Aunt Ruth, stitching at some spotless
kerchief, intercedes.

"Let us be thankful the lad hath come to us."

"Bound fast in cords of vanity," deplores Uncle Kirke.

"But all things are possible," Aunt Ruth softly interposes.

"All things are possible," concedes Eli Kirke grudgingly, "but thou
knowest, Ruth, all things are not probable!"

And I, knowing my uncle loved an argument as dearly as merry gentlemen
love a glass, slip away leg-bail for the docks, where sits Ben Gillam
among the spars spinning sailor yarns to Jack Battle, of the great