“I—er—yes, Master Shackle. I have picked a few,” said the tall thin gentleman, colouring slightly. “I—beg your pardon, Master Shackle, for doing so. I ought to have asked your leave.”
“Bah! Not a bit,” said the fisher-farmer, with a chuckle. “You’re welcome, squire.”
“I thank you, Master Shackle—I thank you warmly. You see her ladyship is very fond of the taste of a fresh gathered mushroom, and if I see a few I like to take them to the Hoze.”
“Ay, to be sure,” said Shackle, as he thought to himself “And precious glad to get them, you two poor half-starved creatures, with your show and sham, and titles and keep up appearances.”
“I—er—I have not got many, Master Shackle. Would you like to see?” continued the tall thin gentleman, raising the flap of one of his salt-box pockets.
“I don’t want to see,” growled the other, as he stood patting the neck of his old grey horse. “Been to the cliff edge?”
“I—yes, Master Shackle.”
“See the cutter?”
“I think I saw a small vessel lying some distance off, with white sails.”
“That’s the White Hawk, Luff Brough. And I wanted to speak to you, Sir Risdon.”