He carried with him a strong smell of rum
and tobacco, and gave it to be understood that his name was Captain
Duggle. He was no beauty, and his behavior was worse than his looks. To
that quiet village, in those quiet strait-laced times, he was a horror
and a portent. He not only drank prodigiously--that, being in character
and also a source of local profit, might have passed with mild
censure--but he swore and blasphemed horribly, spurning the parson,
mocking at Revelation, even at the Deity Himself. The Devil was his
friend, he said. A most terrible fellow, this Captain Duggle. Inkston's
hair stood on end, and no wonder!
"No doubt they shivered with delight over it all," commented Mr. Naylor.
Captain Duggle lived all by himself--well, what God-fearing Christian,
male or female, would be found to live with him--came and went
mysteriously and capriciously, always full of money, and at least equally
full of drink! What he did with himself nobody knew, but evil legends
gathered about him. Terrified wayfarers, passing the cottage by night,
took oath that they had heard more than one voice!
"This is proper Christmas!" a subaltern interjected into Gertie's ear.
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