“No. Stanes and sahnd.”
“Flees, I tell you. Be quiet.”
The boy grunted, looked round, and settled down again to sleep, for he was still drowsy.
Steve listened till all was still, glanced over his right shoulder, saw that Captain Marsham was still talking to the Norwegian, and then quietly peered over the edge of the granite wharf again, to find the boy apparently fast asleep. Then down went a tiny pebble with splendid aim.
“Bother the flees!” roared the boy, springing up and sending his arms about like a windmill. But this time Steve stood fast, laughing; while the boy stopped short, looking up fiercely, and then grinned.
“I see you all the time hiding ahint the stanes!” he cried.
“Come, jump up; here’s the captain.”
The effect of those words was magical, for the man, a big, good-humoured-looking Scot, also sprang up and stepped to his place on the thwart forward, and cried to the boy:
“Naw, Watty, handy there with that hitcher!”
The boy caught up the boat-hook, drew the boat close to where the painter was fastened, and then hauled her along, after casting off, to where a rough wooden ladder was clamped to the side of the wharf.