“’Tisn’t that,” said Joe.
“What an obstinate old mule you are, Jolly,” cried Gwyn, impatiently; “you don’t like Tom Dinass, and everything he does makes you suspicious.”
“Well, do you like him?”
“No; but I don’t always go pecking at him and accusing him of smashing dogs’ legs with iron stoking-bars. It wouldn’t be a man who would do that; he’d be a regular monster.”
“Let’s go and see what he’s after,” said Joe.
“What, late like this in the dark?”
“Yes; you’re not afraid are you? I want to know what he’s about. I’m sure he’s doing something queer.”
“I’m not afraid to go anywhere where you go,” said Gwyn, stoutly; “but of all the suspicious old women that ever were, you’re getting about the worst.”
“Come along, then.”
“All right,” said Gwyn; “but if he finds us watching him throwing out a conger-line, he’ll break our legs with an iron bar and pitch us off the cliff.”