“Did she say that? Did she say that, Mr Dutch?” cried the old man, with exultation.
“Yes, she wants to have a long chat with the man who saved her husband’s life.”
“Now, what’s the good o’ talking such stuff as that, Mr Pug?” cried the old man, angrily. “Save life, indeed! Why, I only come down and put a rope round you. Any fool could ha’ done it.”
“But no other fool would risk his life as you did yours to save mine, Rasp,” said the younger man, quietly. “But, there, we won’t talk about it. It gives me the horrors. Now, mind, you’re to come down on Sunday week.”
“I ain’t comin’ out there to be buttered,” growled the old fellow, sourly.
“Buttered, man?”
“Well, yes—to be talked to and fussed and made much of by your missus, Master Dutch.”
“Nonsense!”
“’Taint nonsense. There, I tell you what, if she’ll make a contract not to say a word about the accident, and I may sit and smoke a pipe in that there harbour o’ yourn, I’ll come.”
“Arbour at this time of the year, Rasp?” laughed the younger man. “Why, it’s too cold.”