The boat which, returning from the ship, appeared like a black speck on the water, indicated that the dinner-hour was at hand; and Price and the purser, who had come on shore with Macallan, now joined him and Willy, who were sitting down on the rocks at the water’s edge.
“Well, Macallan,” said Price, “it’s a fine thing to be a philosopher. What is that which Milton says? Let me see!—sweet—something—divine philosophy—I forget the exact words. Well, what have you caught?”
“If you’ve caught nothing, doctor, you’re better off than I am,” said the purser, wiping his brow, “for I’ve caught a headache.”
“I have been very well amused,” replied Macallan.
“Ay, I suppose, like what’s-his-name in the forest—you recollect?”
“No, indeed, I do not.”
“Don’t you? Bless my soul—you know, sermons in stones, and good in everything. I forget how the lines run. Don’t you recollect, O’Keefe?” continued Price, speaking loud in the purser’s ear.
“No, I never collect. I don’t understand these things,” replied the purser, taking his seat by Macallan, and addressing him—“I cannot think what pleasure there can be in poking about the rocks as you do.”
“It serves to amuse me, O’Keefe.”
“Abuse you, my dear fellow! Indeed I never meant it—I beg your pardon—you mistook me.”