“Come and sit down here,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve lit a fire below.”
“Well, I am cold,” said Geoffrey; and he followed the old man down into a rough cave in the rock, where he kept old nets, a boat, and various pieces of fishing gear. A bright fire of wreck-wood was burning, and to this, with a shiver, Geoffrey walked up, whereupon the old man took a bottle out of a battered sea-chest, whose outside was splintered by the rocks in coming ashore, and poured him out a little spirit in a chipped and footless glass, frosted by the attrition of the sand in which it had been found.
“Smuggled?” said Geoffrey, with a smile.
“Drink it, and don’t ask questions, my lad.”
“Your health, Father Prawle,” said Geoffrey, tossing it down. “It was rude. By George! what nectar. It puts life in a fellow. Shall we hear the doctor when he comes out?”
“Yes, don’t be afeard, man, sit down,” said the old fellow. “I’m going to smoke.”
“I’ll join you,” said Geoffrey, “if you have any tobacco. Mine’s soaked.”
“Oh, yes,” said the old man. “I’ve passed many a night in sea-soaked clothes, but it won’t hurt you, my lad. Here’s some tobacco.”
“I hope not,” said Geoffrey, taking the tobacco, filling, and lighting his pipe.
“You got her out of the water then, eh?”