“What sort of a vessel is she?”
“That I don’t know. Some say she be a schooner, others a brigantine. The coast-guard didn’t know themselves.”
“Poor things!” said Mrs. Coombes. “If any of them comes ashore, they’ll be sadly knocked to pieces on the rocks in a night like this.”
She had caught a little infection of her husband’s mode of thought.
“It’s not likely to clear up before morning, I fear; is it, Joe?”
“I don’t think so, sir. There’s no likelihood.”
“Will you condescend to sit down and take a share with us, sir?” said the old woman.
“There would be no condescension in that, Mrs. Coombes. I will another time with all my heart; but in such a night I ought to be at home with my own people. They will be more uneasy if I am away.”
“Of coorse, of coorse, sir.”
“So I’ll bid you good-night. I wish this storm were well over.”