“All right, my lad, all right. You’ll pay that when you’re rich. I say: chaps sez as you’ll marry Lady Drelincourt, now, after saving her dog, and—”
“Don’t be a fool, Dick. Here, what were you going to say?” said the lad, reddening.
“You won’t want a bit of fishing then, I suppose?”
“Look here; are you going to speak, Dick, or am I to go?”
“All right, my lad. Look here; we eat your dabs, but never mind them. I shall just quietly leave a basket at your door to-night. You needn’t know anything about it, and you needn’t be too proud to take it, for a drop in the house is worth a deal sometimes, case o’ sickness. It’s real French sperit, and a drop would warm the old gentleman sometimes when he is cold.”
“Smuggling again, Dick?”
“Never you mind about that, Master Morton, and don’t call things by ugly names. But that ar’n’t all I’ve got to say. You lost your dabs, but if you’ll slip out to-night and come down the pier, the tide’ll be just right, and I’ll have the bait and lines ready, and I’ll give you as good a bit of fishing as you’d wish to have.”
“Will you, Dick?”
“Ay, that I will. They were on last night, but they’ll be wonderful to-night, and I shouldn’t wonder if we ketches more than we expex.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t go, Dick.”