“Oh! because I want him to have a turn, and I hope he’ll get some luck. If he don’t he’ll be so disappointed.”
“All ready?” cried Mr Temple just then, and Dick proceeded to scuffle down the steps, Arthur watching him eagerly to see him slip on the worst step. But Dick was not going to slip, and he stepped lightly on to one of the thwarts, closely followed by Will with the painter, and the next minute they were on their way to the mouth of the harbour, where there was a gentle swell.
Mr Temple and Dick were smiling as they looked back at the fishing village so picturesquely nestling in the slope of the steep cliff, and they paid no heed to Arthur, who suddenly snatched at his father on one side, at the boat on the other.
“What’s the matter, my boy?” cried Mr Temple.
“Is—is anything wrong?” gasped Arthur. “The boat seemed sinking!”
“Hor—hor!” began Josh; but Arthur turned upon him so angrily, that the fisherman changed his hoarse laugh into a grotesque cough, screwing his face up till it resembled the countenance of a wooden South Sea image, such as the Polynesians place in the prow of their canoes.
“Gettin’ so wet lars night, I think,” he said in a good-tempered, apologetic growl, as he addressed himself to Will. “Sea-water don’t hurt you though.”
“There we are sinking again, Arthur,” said Mr Temple, for the boat mounted the swell, as the wave came lapping the stone wall, raising them up a couple of feet, and letting them glide down four. “Let go!” he whispered. “Don’t be a coward.”
Arthur snatched his hands away, and from being very white he turned red.
“I suppose the sea comes in pretty rough sometimes,” said Mr Temple to Josh.