smuggling in spirits. Young folks nowadays is grown that wexing and wicious—— Where is my George?" suddenly laying hold of Jim Morell.
The old sailor jumped as if he had been caught by a revenue officer.
"Bless my life, Mistress! You did give me a turn. What is it you want? A pinch of snuff?"
"I want my George," said the excited mother. "Where is he skulking to?"
"How should I know?" asked Morell; "he is big enough to look after himself."
"He is among you," said Mrs. De Witt; "I know you have had him along with a party of you at the Leather Bottle yonder. You men get together, and goad the young on into rebellion against their parents."
"I know nothing about George. I have not even seen him."
"I've knitted his guernseys and patched his breeches these twenty years, and now he turns about and deserts me."
"Tom!" shouted Morell to a young fisherman, "have you seen George De Witt this morning?"
"No, I have not, Jim."
"Oh, you young fellows!" exclaimed the old lady, loosing her hold on the elder sailor, and charging among and scattering the young boatmen. "Where is my boy? What have you done with him that he did not come home last night, and is nowhere wisible?"
"He went to the Mussets' last evening. Mistress. We have not set eyes on him since."
"Oh! he went there, did he? Galiwanting again!" She turned about and rushed over the shingle towards the grocery, hardware, drapery, and general store.
Before entering that realm of respectability, Mrs. De Witt assumed an air of consequence and gravity.
She reduced her temper under control, and with an effort called up an urbane smile on her hard features when saluting Mrs. Musset, who stood behind the counter.
"Can I serve you with anything, ma'am?" asked the mother of Phœbe, with cold self-possession.
"I want my George."
"We don't keep him in stock."
