“They haven’t seen anything of them in the night, I suppose?”
“No, sir; nowt. It scars me sometimes, the way they dodges us, and gets away. Don’t think theer’s anything queer about ’em, do you?”
“Queer? Yes, of course. They’re smugglers, and as artful as can be.”
“Nay, sir, bad, I mean—you know, sir.”
“No, I don’t, Dick,” cried the young officer pettishly. “How can I know? Speak out.”
“Nay, I wean’t say a word, sir; I don’t want to get more scarred than I am sometimes now.”
“Get out! What do you mean? That old Bogey helps them to run their cargoes?”
“Nay, sir, I wean’t say a word. It’s all werry well for you to laugh, now it’s daylight, and the sun coming out. It’s when it’s all black as pitch, as it takes howd on you worst.”
“You’re a great baby, Dick,” cried the midshipman, as he went to the side of the cutter and looked over the low bulwark toward the east. “Hah! Here comes the sun.”
His eyes brightened as he welcomed the coming of the bright orb, invisible yet from where he stood; but the cold grey mist that hung around was becoming here and there, in patches, shot with a soft delicious rosy hue, which made the grey around turn opalescent rapidly, beginning to flash out pale yellow, which, as the middy watched, deepened into orange and gold.