“Seal-cave to-day,” he said. “Look out to sea.”
Dick looked out to sea, where there was a dense mist that seemed to wrap everything in its folds. The luggers appeared dim—those that were near shore—while others were completely hidden. Overhead the sky was clear, and the sun was shining brightly, while where its light fell upon the mist it became rosily transparent, and the masts of some of the luggers looked double their usual size.
“Seals, Taff, seals!” cried Dick, shaking his brother’s shoulder, with the effect of making him hurriedly scramble out of bed, yawning terribly, and gazing in an ill-used way at his brother, as he sat down and began to rub his feet one over the other.
“Don’t sit down, Taff; dress yourself. I’m going to call father.”
“Shut that window first,” cried Arthur; “it’s so horribly cold.”
“Cold! Ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Dick. “What a chap you are, Taff! Here, Will, he says it’s cold. Go to the pump for a pail of cold water to warm him.”
“He had better not,” cried Arthur, hurriedly scuffling into his trousers. “If he did I would never forgive him.”
“I’m not going to get any water, Master Arthur,” cried Will; “but make haste down, it’s such a glorious morning!”
“’Tisn’t,” said Arthur, whose eyes were swelled up with sleepiness. “It’s all misty and thick, and the window-sill’s wet, and the roses outside look drenched. Heigh, ho, ha, hum!” he yawned. “I shall go to bed for half an hour longer—till the sun comes out.”
“No, you sha’n’t,” cried Dick, seizing the pillow for a weapon of offence. “If you do, I’ll bang you out of bed again.”