“It does a fellow good to look at that broth of a boy squatting on the stern,” remarked Westerfield, while the Deerfoot was still a short distance away.
“His name is Mike and he is a great favorite with every one. As yet I have not met him, but he has all the wit and humor of his people. Suppose you test him.”
Nothing loath, Westerfield, who was a bit of a wag himself, called so that all heard him:
“You don’t need to show a red signal light, my friend; you ought to wait until night.”
Cocking his head a little more to one side, and with a slight extent of increase in the width of his grin—admitting that to be possible—Mike called back:
“Thin why have ye the graan light standing there on the wharf?”
Westerfield joined in the general laugh, but came back:
“That face of yours will keep off all danger by daylight.”
“And it’s yer own phiz that will sarve the same purpose at night.”
The laughter was louder than ever, and the pleased Calvert said to the lawyer: