Uncle Luke tightened his lips, and stared fiercely out to sea.
“Even he can’t tell the truth,” he said. “Stupid fellow! Just as if I couldn’t read him through and through.”
The meeting was assuming an unpleasant form when there was a diversion, Poll Perrow coming slowly up, basket on back, examining each face keenly with her sharp, dark eyes.
“Morning, Master Leslie,” she said in her sing-song tone. “Nice morning, my son. Morning, Master Luke Vine, sir. Got any fish for me to-day?”
Leslie nodded impatiently; Uncle Luke did not turn his head.
“I said to myself,” continued the old woman, “Master Luke Vine saw that shoal of bass off the point this morning, and he’ll be sure to have a heavy basket for me of what he don’t want. Dessay I can sell you one, Mr Leslie, sir.”
“Can’t you see when two gentlemen are talking?” said Uncle Luke, snappishly. “Go away.”
“Ay, that I will, Master Luke, only let’s have the fish first.”
“I told you I haven’t been fishing.”
“Nay, not a word, Master Luke. Now, did he, Master Leslie? No fish, and I’ve tramped all the way up here for nothing.”