“No more sodgers, Jacob,” said Tom; “father and I eat them all.”
“Have you?” replied Mrs Beazeley, taking two more red herrings out of the cupboard, and putting them on the fire to grill; “no, no, master Tom, there’s some for Jacob yet.”
“Well, mother, you make nets to some purpose, for you’ve always a fish when it’s wanted.”
I despatched my breakfast, and as soon as all had been cleared away by his wife, old Tom, crossing his two timber legs, commenced business, for it appeared, what I was not aware of, that we had met on a sort of council-of-war.
“Jacob, sit down by me; old woman, bring yourself to an anchor in the high chair. Tom, sit anywhere, so you sit still.”
“And leave my net alone, Tom,” cried his mother, in parenthesis.—“You see, Jacob, the whole long and short of it is this—I feel my toes more and more, and flannel’s no longer warm. I can’t tide it any longer, and I think it high time to lie up in ordinary and moor abreast of the old woman. Now, there’s Tom, in the first place, what’s to do with he? I think that I’ll build him a wherry, and as I’m free of the river he can finish his apprenticeship with my name on the boat; but to build him a wherry would be rather a heavy pull for me.”
“If you mean to build it yourself, I think it will prove a heavy pull for me,” replied Tom.
“Silence, Tom; I built you, and God knows you’re light enough.”
“And, Tom, leave my net alone,” cried his mother.
“Father made me light-fingered, mother.”