“Don’t, Master Richard, sir—please don’t!” cried the swarthy fisherman modestly.
“He did more than I did.”
“No, no, Master Richard, sir,” protested Dick, as the cheers were heartily given; and then a horrible thought smote Linnell:
“The boy—Mrs Dean’s little groom! Where is he?”
“Oh, I’m all right, sir,” cried a shrill voice. “When I see as missus couldn’t stop the ponies, I dropped down off my seat on to the pier.”
“Hurray! Well done, youngster!” cried first one and then another,
“Look here, Mr Richard,” cried Barclay; “my place is nearest; come there, and send for some dry clothes.”
“No, no; I’ll get back,” said Linnell. “Thanks all the same. Let me pass, please;” and as Cora Dean’s ponies were led off to their stable, and Barclay went towards where plump Mrs Barclay was signalling him on the cliff, the young man hurried off homeward, followed by bursts of cheers, and having hard work to escape from the many idlers who were eager to shake his hand.