That exclamation changed the conversation from what was a terribly touchy point with Bigley, who always felt it acutely if anyone hinted that his father indulged in smuggling.
“I know,” said Bob Chowne, changing his attack so that it was directed upon me. “Well, if my father was so precious selfish as to get a boat and go out fishing without me, I should kick up a row.”
“Why, you are always making rows without,” I said testily. “My father has not been fishing, I’m sure.”
“There he goes again,” cried Bob in an ill-used tone. “That’s Sep Duncan all over. I say, Big, he was trying to pick a quarrel with me up on the cliff when you came, and I wouldn’t. Now he’s at it again.”
“Well, I sha’n’t stop to quarrel now,” I replied. “Come on down and meet father.”
We were a good three hundred feet above the shore when I spoke, and starting off the others joined me, and we went down over the crumbling slates and then past the pebble ridge to where the little river bubbled up again through the stones before it reached the sea, and then in and out among the rocks, to stand and wait till my father rowed in.
“Ah, boys,” he cried, as the boat grounded, and we dragged it up over a smooth patch of sand, “you are just in time to help.”
“Been fishing, father?” I said.
“No; only on a little bit of investigation along the coast; but I found I had not time as it was drill day. There, make the boat fast to the buoy line, and let’s get up to the mine, and we’ll all go this afternoon when the drill’s over.”
“This afternoon?” I said eagerly.