“A mussy me!” muttered Josh. “The ignoramusness of these here London folk, to be sure.”
“Could you row me and—say, my two sons—to one of the old mining shafts after breakfast this morning?”
“Think your uncle would mind, Will?” said Josh.
“No,” replied Will.
“Of course you will charge me for the hire of the boat,” said Mr Temple; “and here, my son ought to pay his share of the damage you met with last night;” and he slipped half a sovereign in Dick’s hand—a coin he was about to transfer to Josh, but this worthy waved him off.
“No, no!” he said; “give it to young Will here. It ain’t my boot, and they warn’t my oars; and very bad ones they were.”
“Here, Will, take it,” said Dick.
“What for? No, I sha’n’t take it,” said Will. “The old oars were good for nothing, and we should have cut them up to burn next week. Give Josh a shilling to make himself a new gaff, and buy a shilling’s worth of snooding and hooks for yourself. Uncle Abram wouldn’t like me to take anything, I’m sure.”
Mr Temple did not press the matter, but making a final appointment for the boat to be ready, he returned with Dick to the inn, where they had hardly entered the sitting-room with its table invitingly spread for breakfast, when Arthur came down, red-eyed, ill-used looking, and yawning.
“Oh, you’re down first,” he said. “Is breakfast ready? I’ve got such a bad headache.”