“Me?” cried the man, starting. “Not me. I’m English, flesh and bone.”
“No: father says Spanish.”
“Your father knows something about salts and senny,” growled the old fellow, “but I know more about Joe Daygo o’ the Crag than any man going. English right down to my boots.”
“No: Spanish descent, father says,” persisted Vince. “He says he goes by your face and your name.”
“What does he mean?” said the man fiercely. “Good a face as his’n!”
“And principally by your nose. He says it’s a regular Spanish one.”
“He don’t know what he’s talking about,” growled the old man, rubbing the feature in question. “How can it be Spanish when all the rest of me’s English?”
“It’s the shape,” continued Vince; while Mike lay on his back, listened, and stared up at the grey gulls which went sailing round between him and the vividly blue sky. “He says there isn’t another nose in the island a bit like it.”
“Tell him he’d better leave my nose alone. But he is right there: there arn’t a nose like it—they’re all round or stunted, or turn t’other way up.”
“Then he says your name Daygo’s only a corruption of Diego, which is Spanish for James.”