“You’ve got sand in your left eye and an old limpet-shell over the other,” grumbled Bob. “French boat, indeed! Why, no French boat like that would dare to come near England now. I s’pose that’s a French boat too!”
He pointed to another about a mile behind.
“No,” I said; “that looks like a big yacht or a cutter. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s a revenue cutter.”
“Well, you are a clever chap,” said Bob mockingly—“setting up for a sailor, and don’t know any more about it than an old cuckoo.”
“I know what our old Sam and my father and Binnacle Bill have taught me,” I said quietly.
“No, you don’t—you don’t know anything only how to be surly and disagreeable to your visitors.”
“I say, Bob,” I said, “is it true what people say?”
“I don’t care what people say.”
“Why, that your father gives you so much physic that it makes you sour?”
I repented saying it directly, for Bob stopped short. “Want me to chuck you off the cliff?” he said fiercely.