“If I’d let you have it,” continued the old man, “that wouldn’t ha’ happened. But I know: they can’t cheat me. I’m a-goin’ over to Jemmy Carnach to have it out with him, and first time I meets the young ’un I’m going to make him sore. See this here?”
Daygo showed his teeth in a very unpleasant grin, and drew a piece of tarry rope, about two feet long, from out of his great trousers, the said piece having had a lodging somewhere about his breast.
“Do you think Lobster—” began Vince.
“Ay, that’s it: lobster,” said Daygo. “Lobster it is: Jemmy Carnach would sell himself for lobster, but he arn’t a-going to set his pots in my ground and go out to ’zamine ’em with my boat. I don’t wish him no harm, but it would ha’ been a good job if she’d sunk with him and his young cub. They’re no good to the Crag—not a bit. Ay, I wish she’d sunk wi’ ’em, only the boat’s useful, and I should ha’ had to get another.”
Old Daygo ceased speaking, and after giving the rope a fierce swish through the air, as if he were hitting at Lobster’s back, he put the end inside the top of his trousers, just beneath his chin, and gradually worked it down out of sight.
Vince coughed, and he was about to begin, after looking inquiringly at Mike, who shook his head, and turned it away. But Vince somehow felt as if it would be better to wait till the whole of the rope had disappeared, and Daygo had given himself a shake to make it lie comfortably. Then his lips parted; but the old man checked him by saying,—
“On’y wait till I meet young Jemmy. I’ve on’y got to slip my hand in here, and it’s waiting for him. Yes, young gen’lemen, I’m a-going to make that chap sore as sore as sore.”
“No, you’re not, Joe,” said Vince firmly.
“What? But I just am, my lad. If I don’t lay that there piece on to his back, and make him lie down and holloa, my name arn’t Daygo.”
“But you are not going to thrash him, Joe,” said Vince.