Joe. Made it still more really charming. Yes, I know. They usually have their charms about them.
Ned. Exactly. And at noon we landed, and spread our repast under the shade of a spreading oak, and there partook of cold chicken, sandwiches, and fruits. At the hour of sunset, with a fair wind, and with now and then a song, we floated calmly down the stream.
Joe. All serene. Now I took it in the rough. See! Borrowed real sea-clothes, and sailed on the briny sea. Jingoes, if ’twasn’t sport off the Ledge!
Ned. Seasick?
Joe. Hem! Well, little rily doubling “Hook’s Pint:” soon over it, though, and relished my lunch—oh, hugely! None of your chicken-fixin’s; real fishermen’s fare,—sea-biscuit dipped in the sea.
Ned. Barbarous fare, I should call that.
Joe. Not a bit. Oh, yes! I’m mistaken: good many bits. Fish bit lively, and old skipper chowdered ’em right out o’ the water: then we got into a school o’ mackerel, and so brought in quite a fare of fish. If we’d only landed on that island—But I mean to (rubbing his hands), dogs or no dogs. What the dogs do I care! Let ’em yelp!
Ned. Of what island are you speaking?
Joe. “Maiden Island” some call it. Skipper said ’twas oftener called “The Isle of Dogs.”
Ned. Why are these names given to it?