The boys spoke out together then, and muddled or blurred their reply, for one said, “No, fa,” being his shortening of father, and the other cried, “No, sir,” both looking indignant at the suggestion. “What have you been doing, then?”
“Fishing, sir.”
“Good lads!” cried the first speaker, leaning back on his seat, and starting up and grasping the rough edge of the table to save himself from falling, while the boys burst out laughing.
“Yes, you may laugh, my fine fellows,” said the first speaker rather pettishly, “but it wouldn’t have been pleasant for me if I had gone down.”
“No, fa,” said his son, colouring and speaking quickly. “I beg your pardon! I am sorry.”
“I know, Chris. You didn’t think. I suppose it looked droll.”
“Yes, sir,” said the other boy, hastily. “I beg your pardon too. You thought you were in an arm-chair, didn’t you?”
“I did, my boy,” was the reply, given in company with a weary sigh. “But granted, granted, and thank you. I’m glad to find that though we are leading this half savage life, you young fellows don’t forget that you are gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen’s sons, sir,” said the second boy modestly.
“Same thing, Ned Bourne. Well, so we’re to have a treat: fish for dinner, eh? Where are they?”