“Along with you,” said Vince promptly.
“Where?”
“You said you were going out to look at your lobster-pots and nets, didn’t you?”
“Nay, ne’er a word like it,” growled the man.
“Yes, you did,” cried Mike. “You said you were going to see what luck you’d had.”
“Ay, so I did; but that might mean masheroons or taters growing, or rabbit in a trap aside the cliff.”
“Yes,” said Vince, laughing merrily; “or a bit of timber, or a sea chest, or a tub washed up among the rocks, mightn’t it, Mike? Only fancy old Joe Daygo going mushrooming!”
“You’re a nice sarcy one as ever I see,” said the man, with another of his wooden-wheel laughs. “I like masheroons as well as any man.”
“Yes, but you don’t go hunting for them,” said Vince; “and you never grow potatoes; and as for setting a trap for a rabbit—not you.”
“You’re fine and cunning, youngster,” said the man, with a grim look; and his keen, clear eyes gazed searchingly at the lad from under his shaggy brows.