“Nonsense, uncle. I can sail about now as well as any of the fisher lads.”
“Fisher? Bah!” growled the old man, fiercely. “Scoundrels—rascals, who wear a fisher’s frock to hide the fact that they are smugglers—were wreckers. Nice sink of iniquity this. Look here, Lick. Take care and don’t play that idler’s trick of making fast the sheet.”
“I’ll take care, uncle.”
“How’s the wind, boy?”
“Just a nice soft breeze, uncle. I can run round the point in about an hour—wind right abaft.”
“And dead ahead coming back, eh?”
“Yes; but I can tack, uncle—make good long reaches.”
“To take you out into the race and among the skerries. Do you think I want to have you carried out to sea and brought back days hence to be buried, sir?”
“Of course you don’t, uncle; but I shan’t hurt. Old Dumpus says I can manage a boat as well as he can.”
“He’s a wooden-legged, wooden-headed old fool for saying so. Look here, Aleck; you’d better stop at home to-day.”