“What?”
“Him and four more went out at sundown to shoot their nets.”
Vine uttered a low groan.
“Good night!” said the man, and he moved off.
“Stop!” cried Vine, and the man’s heavy boots ceased to clatter on the rugged pebbles with which the way was paved.
“Call me, Master Vine!”
“Yes. You know me?”
“Know you? Ay, and the young lady too. Liza Perrow’s Uncle Bob. Didn’t I take you ’long the coast one day?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Vine hastily. “Look here, my man; you have a boat.”
“Third share master, just going out now. My mates are waiting yonder.”