“I think, as I thought that day, that old Joe doesn’t want us to go there.”
Mike was about to throw another shell, but he faced round at this with his curiosity roused.
“Why?”
“Ah! that’s what I want to know; and I can’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t want us to go there. It seems so queer.”
“Yes, it does seem queer,” assented Mike.
“Of course the fishermen believe in all kinds of old women’s tales about ghosts and goblins, and ill-wishing and that sort of nonsense, just as the women do about old Mother Remming’s being a witch; but old Joe always seemed to me to be such a hard, solid old chap, who would laugh at a story about the fairies coming in the night and drying any one’s cow.”
“Well, I always thought something of that sort; but what he says must be right about the horrible currents among the rocks.”
“Yes; there are fierce currents, I suppose, at some times of the tide.”
“Well, that means it’s dangerous.”
“Of course it is, sometimes; but I’m not going to believe all he said.”