“Of course not,” said Vince.
“Then don’t you go, my lad—don’t you go. There—better be off, both on you. Weather’s hot, and fish won’t keep. Tell ’em to put some salt in the pot with that lobster, Ladle; and you’d better have your fish cooked to-night, Doctor.”
Vince turned round and nodded; but the ladle was sticking in Mike’s throat, and he stalked on without making a sign.
Daygo stood watching till the lads had climbed up out of his sight, and then he went and sat down on a block of granite, and began to rasp his nose on both sides with his rough, fishy finger, as if engaged in sharpening the edge of a feature which was sharp enough as it was; and as he rasped, he looked straight before him at the great rugged cliff. But he was not thinking of it in the least; his thoughts were half a mile away, at the most precipitous part of the coast—a spot avoided by shore-goer and seaman alike, from the ill name it bore, and the dangers said to attend those who ventured to go near, either climbing or in a boat.
“Nay,” he said at last; “they won’t go now.”
Chapter Four.
Cinder has Discovery on the Brain.
“What are you thinking about, Cinder?” said Mike one day, when they were out together, after a long, hard morning’s work up at the Ladelles, over algebra and Latin, with the tutor who was resident at the Mount, the Doctor sharing, however, in the cost. “You seem to have been so moony and stupid lately.”