“Arn’t got your bit o’ fish.”
“Oh, I don’t want to take it, Joe,” said Vince. “You’ve had bad luck to-day.”
“Never you mind about that, my lad. I get lots o’ fish, and I’m dead on some hammaneggs to-night. I said you two was to have that fish and lobster; so which is it to be? Who says lobster?”
Nobody said lobster, and the boys laughed.
“Well, if you two won’t speak out like men, I must do it myself. Am I to divide the take, or are you?”
“You give us what you like, Joe,” said Vince, who made up his mind to ask his mother for a pot of jam as a return present, knowing as he did that the old man had a sweet tooth.
“Right, then; I will,” cried Daygo, rolling up his jersey sleeve, and thrusting a massive arm into the locker, out of which he drew the fish, the boat’s stem having been lifted so that the water had run out. “There, look here: Doctor Burnet said as lobsters were undo-gestible things, so you’d better take that there one home with you, Ladle. You take the fish, Squire Burnet; your mar likes ’em fresh, as I well know.”
Mike took the lobster; and the old fellow took a little willow creel from where it was wedged in a granite crevice, laid some sea-weed at the bottom, and then packed in the fish.
“Thankye, Daygo,” said Mike. “Shall I pay you for it?”
“If you wants to be bad friends, lad,” said the old man gruffly.