“Hearty,” said the boy, laughing. “I’m always all right. He isn’t,” he added, with a backward nod of his head, which nearly made him lose his straw hat; but he caught it as it fell, clapped it on the back of his head again, and laughingly gave his trousers a hitch up in front and another behind, about the waist, kicking out one leg as he did so. “That’s salt-water sort, isn’t it? I say,” he added quickly, “are you the skipper?”
“Me!” cried Josh, showing two rows of beautifully white teeth. “Nay, my lad, I’m the crew. Who may you be?”
“What? my name? Dick—Richard Temple. This is my brother Arthur. We’ve come down to stay.”
“Have you, though?” said Josh, looking from one to the other as if it was an announcement full of interest, while the lad on the pier frowned a little at his brother’s free-and-easy way.
“Yes, we’ve come down,” said Dick dreamily, for he was watching Will’s busy fingers as he baited hook after hook. “I say,” he cried, “what’s that stuff—those bits?”
“These?” said Will. “Squid.”
“Squid? What’s squid?”
Josh ceased winding the wire round his staff.
“Here’s a lad as don’t know what squid is,” he said in a tone of wondering pity.
“Well, how should I know? Just you be always shut-up in London and school and see if you would.”