Tom took a fresh bit of tobacco, spat several times down on to the boulders, and narrowly missed a mate, who responded with a lump of stone from the beach below, and then, frowning hugely, he exclaimed,—
“I lay a gallon o’ ale I dare take up a hundred o’ mack’ral and half a score o’ hake, come now.”
“Ye daren’t,” chorused several. “Parson’ll gie ye such a setting down.”
“I dare,” cried Tom Jennen, grinning. “I arn’t feard o’ all the parsons in Cornwall. I’ll take it up.”
“Bet you a gallon o’ ale you won’t,” said one.
“Done,” cried Tom Jennen, clapping his hand into that of his mate.
“And I’ll lay you a gallon,” said another.
“And I,”—“and I,”—“and I,” cried several.
“Done! done! done!” cried Tom Jennen, grinning. “Get the fish, lads. I arn’t afraid o’ the gashly parson. I’ll take ’em.”
Amos Pengelly looked disturbed, but he said nothing.