Whatever their inclinations might have been for the moment, not being dogs, and each having his prestige to keep up in his companion’s eyes, Gwyn and Joe certainly stopped; but they did not turn, but stood firm, noting that the man had a large reel of sea-fishing line evidently of goodly length.
“Hullo!” he said, hoarsely. “What’s for you?”
“What are you doing here?” cried Gwyn.
“What’s that to you?”
“Everything. Do you know you are trespassing?”
“No. Am I?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank ye for telling me. Good-morning.”
Gwyn stared, and then looked at Joe.
For, instead of going at once, the man turned his back and drew upon his line, whose end—evidently weighted—was hanging down the shaft; but instead of continuing to draw it out, he let it run down again rapidly from a reel.