“Ugh!” growled Josh, “who knows what gashly creatures lives down there. P’r’aps its harnted with them as tumbled down and was killed.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Josh,” said Will, in a voice full of contempt; “I never heard of anybody falling down here.”
“Looks as if lots had. Ugh! I wouldn’t go down for the price of a new boat and all her gear.”
“If everybody felt like you do, Josh, what should we have done for tin and copper?”
“I d’now,” growled Josh. “Why can’t you leave it alone and ’tend to the fishing. Arn’t catching pilchar’ and mack’rel good ’nough for you? Yah! I shall never make nothing of you.”
“No, Josh; catching pilchard and mackerel is not good enough for me.”
“Then why not get aboard the smack and larn to trawl for sole and turbot? There arn’t no better paying fishing than that, so long as you don’t get among the rocks.”
“No, Josh; nor trawling won’t do,” said Will, who ashore seemed to take the lead that he yielded to his companion and old Michael Polree on board the lugger. “I want to make my way in the world, and do you hear, I will.”
He said the last word so emphatically that the fisherman stared, and then said in an ill-used tone:
“Then why don’t you try in a reasonable way, and get to be master of a lugger? and if that arn’t enough for you, have your share o’ nets in another; not come poking about these gashly holes. What’s the good?”