“‘Oh, Tom,’ burst out his wife, throwing down that popular wind instrument without which upon a grand scale no fisherman’s granite cottage is complete—‘Oh, Tom,’ said Mrs Trecarn, throwing down the bellows, there known as the ‘Cornish organ’—‘Oh, Tom, you’re a ruined man.’
“‘Not yet, my son,’ replied Tom, stoically; ‘but if things don’t mend, fishing won’t be worth the salt for a score of pilchards.’
“‘But Dan Pengelly’s broken, Tom,’ sobbed Mrs Trecarn.
“‘Then we’ll get him mended, my son,’ said Tom, kissing her.
“‘How many fish had ye?’ sang a voice outside the cottage, in the peculiar pleasant intonation common amongst the Cornish peasantry.
“‘Thousand an’ half,’ sang back Tom to the inquiring neighbour.
“‘Where did you shoot, lad?’ sang the voice again.
“‘West of Scilly, Eddard. Bad times: wind heavy, and there’s four boats’ fish.’
“‘Pengelly’s got the bailiffs in, Thomas,’ sang the neighbour, now thrusting his head in at the door.
“‘Sorry for him,’ sang Tom, preparing for a wash.