“Yes: what I say’s quite right,” said Tom Genna; “but as for you, young fellow, you’re quite wrong, and it’s my belief you’re about half out of your mind.”
Zekle Wynn stared vacantly round at the speakers, and then, putting his hand to his head, he walked thoughtfully away.
“He is going wrong,” said the fishing sage, nodding his head; and this formed a fresh subject for discussion, especially as one of the knot of idlers recollected that a second cousin of Zekle Wynn’s was an idiot.
But Zekle Wynn was not going out of his mind, but, as soon as it was dark, straight up to the house where Mark Penelly lived with his father, and as soon as he had watched Penelly, senior, out of the house, he went boldly up and asked to see Mark.
The latter came at the end of a few minutes, looking curiously at his visitor.
“Sit down, Zekle,” he said. “Brought a message?”
“No!” said Zekle.
“Brought up some fish, then?”
“No!” was the very gruff reply.
“Did you want to see my father?”