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It's hard not have pity for the man, doubly so when he is your own family. You tell him to forget all such debts, as your father would have done, and when he argues out of pride, you suggest the idea of having him work for a season on the boat. You're a man short now, as you have been the last few months as your father's illness took its course, and you could use another who knows the trade. In truth, you'd like to do something for your uncle, if you can. He was a good man once, before his son got himself killed in the lord's campaigns, and might be again by the influence of good, honest work.
Your uncle is hesitant. He has grown to used to the comforts of his evils, chief among them the comfort of forgetfulness. He says, finally, that he will try. You reply that you'll not have a drunken man on your boat, for a drunken man is a risk to all, not only himself, and the sea will stand no nonsense. He nods, mutely, seemingly unhappy at the prospect, but determined to see it through.
You tell him to stay with you at your house, the house of your father, and his father before him, which your father and your uncle and your grandfather built with their own hands. This cheers your uncle (whom you guess had been living without a roof for some time), but again his pride needs some coaxing. You tell him that with your father now gone it is lonely to be in such a big house all alone, you could use the company.
And it is not all a lie, for you share the house only with:
>Your grandmother, a half-blind old biddy whose tongue has only grown more honest with age
>Your bitch, Cherry, a sweet-tempered barbet that has been your companion since you were a lad
>Your younger sister, at almost half your age she should be your ward, but without your mother has grown up too quickly to fill the role herself
>Write-in