Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Terrible Time at Sea.
“Isn’t it glorious, Taff?” cried Dick as he stood with his brother in their little low-roofed bed-room, whose window overlooked the sea.
“Can’t say that I like it,” said Arthur languidly. “The place smells horribly of fish.”
“Pooh! That isn’t fish. It’s the sea-weed. It turns limp, and smells because the weather’s moist and stormy. There, come on. Father must be ready now, and I want to go down and see the sea.”
Uncle Abram came in just as they were about to start, and insisted upon lending a couple of suits of oilskins, which he brought out of a room in the roof, where he kept his stores, as he called them.
“Was Will’s,” he explained. “He growed out of ’em. Not much to look at, sir,” he added apologetically to Mr Temple, “but they’ll keep out the water. We like the sea, but we like to keep dry.”
Arthur looked horribly disgusted, for his father gladly accepted the hospitable offer, and he had to submit to being buttoned up in the stiff garb that Will had cast off years before, even to the high boots.
Dick scuffled into his with delight, and tied the sou’-wester under his chin, turning the next minute to see his brother, and stamp on the floor with delight.