“Eh? What? Where? Tchah! Not you!”
“But what about one of those boats the French prisoners escaped in?” cried Rodd eagerly.
“Eh? What? One of those trim orange boats that go on the Mediterranean Trade, that they build at Salcombe?”
“Yes, uncle. Don’t you remember that one we were looking at a few months ago, that came in here after the storm, to get a new jibboom?”
“Why, of course I do, Pickle!” cried Uncle Paul eagerly. “Think of that, now! Why, I might have been fumbling about with a hammer for months and not found what I wanted, and here are you, you impudent young rascal, proving that you are not quite so stupid as I thought, for you hit the right nail on the head at once.”
Chapter Nine.
Captain Chubb.
The next day was spent in Plymouth, and letting the idea of a visit to Salcombe rest in abeyance for a time, Uncle Paul called on different shipping agents, made inquiries in the docks, looked over two or three small vessels that he was assured would be exactly the thing he wanted, and which could be handed over to him at once if decided on; and at last, utterly wearied out, he returned home with Rodd very much impressed by the feeling that it was much easier to say what he required, than to get his wants supplied.