“I know you would, Solly,” said Nic, laying a hand upon the rugged old sailor’s shoulder.
“Thank ye, Master Nic; that does a man good. But look here, sir; I can’t help saying it. The fact is, after his rough, stormy life, everything here’s made too easy for the skipper. He’s a bit worried by his old wounds, and that’s all; and consekens is ’cause he aren’t got no real troubles he wherrits himself and makes quakers.”
“Makes quakers?” said Nic wonderingly.
“Sham troubles, Master Nic—wooden guns, as we call quakers out at sea or in a fort. Strikes me, sir, as a real, downright, good, gen-u-wine trouble, such as losing all his money, would be the making of the Captain; and after that he’d be ready to laugh at losing a few salmon as he don’t want. I say, Master Nic, you aren’t offended at me for making so bold?”
“No, Solly, no,” said the young man sadly. “You mean well, I know. There, say no more about it. I hope all this will settle itself, as so many troubles do.”
Nic strolled out into the grounds and unconsciously followed his father, who had gone to the edge of the combe; but he had not walked far before a cheery hail saluted his ears, and, to his great delight, he found the Captain looking radiant.
“Nic, my boy, it’s all right,” he cried; “my left arm aches terribly and my corns are shooting like mad. Well, what are you staring at? Don’t you see it means rain? Look yonder, too. Bah! It’s of no use to tell you, boy. You’ve never been to sea. You’ve never had to keep your weather-eye open. See that bit of silvery cloud yonder over Rigdon Tor? And do you notice what a peculiar gleam there is in the air, and how the flies bite?”
“Yes—yes, I see all that, father.”
“Well, it’s rain coming, my boy. There’s going to be a thunderstorm up in the hills before many hours are past. I’m not a clever man, but I can tell what the weather’s going to be as well as most folk.”
“I’m glad of it, father, if it will please you.”