Mr Temple looked at him for a moment, and then nodded his satisfaction.
By this time they were close to the harbour, where, being recognised by several of the fishermen, there was a friendly nod or two, and a smile from first one and then another, and a hearty sing-song “Good-morning!” before they reached the middle of the pier, close up to which the lugger was moored. Josh and Will were upon deck discussing what was to be done to the boat, partly stove in by the steamer on the previous evening; whether to try and patch her up themselves or to let her go to the boat hospital just beyond the harbour head, where old Isaac Pentreath, the boat-builder, put in new linings and put out new skins, and supplied schooners and brigs with knees or sheathing or tree-nail or copper bolt. He could furnish a stranger with boat or yacht to purchase or on hire.
“Mornin’, sir!” sang out Josh. “Mornin’, Master Richard, sir! None the worse for last night’s work, eh?”
“No, I’m all right, Josh,” said Dick. “Good-morning, Will! I say, you lost all the fish and the tackle last night, didn’t you?”
“We lost all the fish, sir; but the tackle was all right; a bit tangled up, that’s all.”
“Oars is the worst of it,” said Josh, “only they was old uns. Will and me’s got a good pair, though, from up at Pentreath’s. Game out of a French lugger as was wrecked.”
“I want to have a look round at some of the old mine-shafts, my man,” said Mr Temple. “Who can you tell me of as a good guide?”
“Josh, sir,” said Will.
“Will, sir,” said Josh.
“Josh knows all of them for three or four miles round.”