“There,” he said, when we had quite done, “be off, boys, now. I’m going to be busy.”
“Yes, father,” said Big. “May we have the boat and go out for a sail?”
Old Jonas turned sharply round on him, and looked as if he were going to knock his son down, so fierce was his aspect.
“No!” he roared.
“No, father?” faltered Bigley.
“No!” said old Jonas, not quite so fiercely. “Do you think I want to spend all next week on the look-out to find you chaps when you’re washed ashore—drowned?”
“Oh, father! Just as if it was likely!”
“Haw, haw!” laughed old Jonas, and it did not seem like a laugh, but as if he were calling his son bad names. “You can manage a boat all of you, can’t you, and row and reef and steer? Get out. Books is in your way, and writin’, and sums, not boats.”
“But father—”
“Hold your tongue. I don’t want to lose my boat, and I don’t want to lose you. May be useful some day. Doctor wants his boy too, teach him to make physic; and I ar’n’t no spite again’ young Duncan here, so I dunno as I partic’lar wants him throw’d up on the beach with his pockets full o’ shrimps; so, No. Now be off. Go and look at the weir.”