"My boy," says she, "I want you not to go out this trip."
"Not go out!" said I; "not go out, mother! Why? What's happened? Your share and mine didn't come to three pounds last month, and it would be a talk if I didn't go out in the Jane. Why, what is it?"
"My boy," says she, "I've had a dream as how you was drowned."
"Drowned!" said I; "I'm not going to be drowned, mother."
But what she said made me feel creepy like, for us Cornishmen goes a good deal on dreams and tokens; and sure enough mother had dreamed father was going to be drowned before he started on that last trip of his.
"That's not all, Will," she said. "I dreamed of you in bed, and a chap was leaning over you cutting your throat."
I didn't care much for going on with my breakfast after that; but in a minute or two I plucks up and says:
"Well, mother, you're wrong, anyhow; for if I be drowned no one has no call to cut my throat."
"I didn't see you downright drowned in my dream," she said. "You was in the sea—a terribly rough sea—at night, and the waves were breaking down on you."
"I can't help going, mother," I says, after a bit. "It's a fine day, and it's our boat. All the lads and girls in the village would laugh at me if I stayed at home."