“Sit on the cliff with your old glass,” said Vince, “when you’re not fishing or selling your lobsters and crabs. He don’t eat them himself, does he, Mike?”
“No. My father says he makes more of his fish than any one, or he wouldn’t be the richest man on the island.”
The old man scowled darkly.
“Oh! Sir Francis said that, did he?”
“Yes, I heard him,” cried Vince; “and my father said you couldn’t help being well off, for your place was your own, and it didn’t cost you anything to live, so you couldn’t help saving.”
A great hand came down clap on the lad’s shoulder, and it seemed for the moment as if he were wearing an epaulette made out of a crab, while the gripping effect was similar, for the boy winced.
“I say, gently, please: my shoulder isn’t made of wood.”
“No, I won’t hurt you, boy,” growled the old fellow; “but your father’s a man as talks sense, and I won’t forget it. I’ll be took bad some day, and give him a job, just to be neighbourly.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Vince.
“What’s the matter?” growled the old man, frowning.