“Eh! A goon!” cried the wheelwright, starting.
“Yes; you’ve got one?”
“An old one. She’s roosty, and put awaya. I heven’t hed her out for years.”
“Clean it up, and bring it, Hicky,” said Dick. “We may get a shot at something. I say, you’d lend me that gun if I wanted it, wouldn’t you?”
“Nay, nay; thou’rt not big enew to handle a goon, lad. Wait a bit for that.”
“Come along, Tom!” cried Dick. “And I say, Hicky, bring the forge-bellows with you, so as we can blow out the will’s light if he comes after us.”
“Haw—haw—haw—haw!” rang out like the bray of a donkey with a bad cold; and Jacob, Hickathrift’s lad, threw back his head, and roared till his master gave him a sounding slap on the back, and made him close his mouth with a snap, look serious, and go on with his work.
“Jacob laughs just like our old Solemn-un, sometimes,” said Dick merrily. “Come along!”
The morning was hot, but there was a fine brisk breeze from off the sea, and the lads trudged on, talking of the progress of the drain, and the way in which people grumbled.
“Father says that if he had known he wouldn’t have joined the adventure,” said Tom.