"You are quite right, Caleb: my thoughts were wandering. Your treatment is a trifle rough, but honest. Are those extraordinary people gone?"
"Iss, sir; here they were, but gone—like Jemmy Rule's larks."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Figger o' speech, sir. They be gone right enough—Adm'ral Buzza in full fig, and a row o' darters in jallishy buff. I sent 'em 'bout their bus'ness. Look 'ee here, sir: ef you'll promise to sit quiet and keep your wits at home, I'll run down to town for a happord o' tar."
"Tar, Caleb?"
"Iss, sir, tar!" and with this Caleb turned on his heel and strode away across the shingle. In a moment or two he had untied his boat from the little quay, and was pulling down towards Troy Town.
When he returned, it was with a huge board, a pot of tar, and a brush. He looked anxiously about the beach, but Mr. Fogo was nowhere to be seen. "Drownded hissel'," was Caleb's first thought, but his ear caught the sound of hammering up at the house. He walked indoors to see that all was right.
"How be feelin'?" he asked, putting his head in at the dining-room door.
Mr. Fogo laid down the mallet with which he had been nailing a loose plank in the flooring, and looked up.
"All right, Caleb, thank you."