“And what brings you round here?”
“I’ve been taking Jemmy Carnach a bottle of physic; and we came round,” cried Vince. “Why?”
“Taking Jemmy Carnach a bottle of physic,” said the old fellow, with a low, curious laugh, which sounded as if an accident had happened to the works of a wooden clock. “He’s mighty fond o’ making himself doctor’s bills. I’d ha’ cured him if he’d come to me.”
“What would you have given him, Daygo?”
“Give him?” said the man, rubbing his great brown eagle-beak nose with a finger that would have grated nutmeg easily: “I’d ha’ give him a mug o’ water out of a tar tub, and a lotion o’ rope’s end, and made him dance for half an hour. He’d ha’ been ‘quite well thank ye’ to-morrow morning.”
Vince laughed.
“Ay, that’s what’s the matter with him, young gentleman. A man who can’t ketch lobsters and sell ’em like a Christian, but must take ’em home, and byle ’em, and then sit and eat till you can see his eyes standing out of his head like the fish he wolfs, desarves to be ill. Well, I must be off and see what luck I’ve had.”
“Come on, Mike,” cried Vince, springing up—an order which his companion obeyed with alacrity.
The old fellow frowned and stared.
“And where may you be going?” he asked.