“Why, sir, it seems rum, but Joe Cross and the other lads know better what’s good for them than I do. You see, sir, they want to get to work again at your fishing and hauling, or rowing about, for they says they can keep much cooler when they are moving about and got to think what they are doing than when there’s no work on hand and nothing to think about at all.”
“Oh, very well,” said Rodd grumpily, “I’ll go and ask him, for I am about sick of this. I think there must be some volcanoes here, or something of that kind, for I never felt it so hot before.”
“You aren’t used to it, sir; but I thought you would, sir, and the lads said they thought you would too. Thank you, sir.”
Rodd yawned, turned slowly on his heels, and strolled away to where Uncle Paul was sitting back in an Indian cane chair, resting the carefully-focussed spy-glass upon a half-opened book standing upon its front edges propped upon four more in the middle of a little table.
“Ah, Pickle, my lad! You had better stop in the shade. I don’t want you to be getting any head trouble in this torrid sun.”
“Oh, I am all right, uncle; but the men want to begin fishing or doing something again, keeping cool.”
“Too hot till towards evening, my boy,” replied the doctor. “But look here; you were saying only the other day how strange it was that we saw so few vessels. Well, here’s one at all events—a three-master.”
“Oh, whereabouts, uncle?” cried the boy eagerly.
“Away to the west yonder, hull down. There, take the glass.”
As Rodd was arranging it to his own satisfaction the doctor went on quietly—