Vince threw back his head to gaze up at the beautiful, white-breasted bird, which was keeping them company, and sailing about here and there some twenty feet overhead, watching them all the time.
“Bother the gull!” said Mike. “Let’s go on and speak to old Joe about the boat.”
“Oh, very well,” said Vince; “but what’s the hurry? I hate racing along when there’s so much to see. Here, Ladle: look—look! My! what a chance for a seine!”
They had just reached a turn in the lane where they could look down at an embayed portion of the deep blue sea, in which a wide patch was sparkling and flashing in the most dazzling way, and literally seeming to boil as if some large volcanic fire were at work below.
“Mackerel,” said Vince.
“Pilchards,” said Mike.
“’Taint: it’s too soon. It’s mackerel. What a chance!”
“Have it your own way,” said Mike; “but a nice chance! Ha! ha! Why, if they surrounded them they’d get their nets all torn to pieces. There’s sand all round, but the middle there is full of the worst rocks off the coast.”
“Yes I s’pose it would be rocky,” said Vince thoughtfully. “Well, do come on.”
Mike turned upon him to resent the order, feeling that it was nice to be accused of delaying their progress; but the mirthful look on Vince’s face disarmed him, and after a skirmish and spar to get rid of a little of their effervescing vitality, consequent upon the stimulating effects of the glorious air, they broke into a trot and went past a large patch where a man was busy hoeing away at a grand crop of carrots, destined for winter food for his soft-eyed cow, tethered close at hand; and soon after came in sight of a massive, rough chimney-stack of granite, apparently level with the road. But this latter made a sudden dip down into a steep hollow, and there stood the comfortable-looking cottage inhabited by the old fisherman, with its goodly garden, cow-shed, and many little additions which betokened prosperity.