The door was open, and, quite at home, the boys walked into the half parlour, half kitchen-like place, with its walls decorated with fishing-gear and dried fish, with various shells, spars, and minerals, which the old man called his “koorosseties,” some native, but many obtained from men who had made long voyages in ocean-going ships.
“Hi, Joe! where are you?” cried Vince, hammering on the open door. But there was not a sound to be heard; and they came out, climbed up the rocks at the back till they were above the chimneys, and looked round, expecting to find that he had gone off to the granite-hedged field where he tethered his cows.
But the two sleek creatures were browsing away, and no one was in sight but the man, some hundred yards or so distant, hoeing the weeds from his carrots.
“How tiresome!” said Mike.
“All right: he’ll know,” cried Vince; and they trotted to where the man was very slowly freeing his vegetables from intruders.
“Hi, Jemmy Carnach!” shouted the lad, “seen Joe Daygo?”
“Ay,—hour ago,” said the man, straightening himself slowly, and passing one hand behind him to begin softly rubbing his back: “he’ve gone yonder to do somethin’ to his boat.”
“Come on, Mike; we’ll cut straight across here and catch him. It’s much nearer.”
“Going fishing, young sirs?” said the man.
“Yes, and for a sail.”