“Goin’ to have a bathe?” said Josh, who was mopping out the boat.
“Yes. Good-morning! How are you?” cried Dick.
“Just nicely, lad,” sang Josh. “Here, I don’t mind rowing you out if you’ll promise to bring me half ounce o’ the best ’bacco next time you come.”
“I’ll bring it,” said Dick eagerly; and jumping into the boat, Josh rowed the boys out half a mile or so, and then in they went with a plunge off the boat’s side, and down into the invigorating clear cool water, to come up again and swim steadily off side by side, Dick being a pretty fair swimmer, though in his modesty he had disclaimed the accomplishment. And as the boys swam, Josh had steadily rowed after them, so that when they had had enough the boat was at hand for them to climb in, have a good towel, scrub, and dress.
“Why don’t you have a bathe, Josh?” cried Dick, panting with his exertions. “It’s lovely.”
“Yes, a good bathe be lovely,” said Josh; “but I don’t bathe much. I be delicate.”
He said it so seriously that Dick never thought of laughing, though Josh seemed solid and hard as wood, which in truth he was.
“Look yonder, lad!” he cried; “see him on the cliff;” and putting the handle of one oar under his leg, he pointed towards the shore west of the village.
“Yes, I can see him: what’s he doing?”
“Signalling,” cried Josh excitedly; “it’s mack’rel.”