“More Shetlanders, I suppose,” said the mate to the spectioneer.
“I don’t think so. There is only the boatman and a lad, and the lad has an oar. You never see a Shetlander take an oar, if he can help it.”
“By gum! though,” cried the mate, enthusiastically, “that youngster does pull nimbly. Why he feathers his oar like one of an Oxford eight!”
“He seems a genteel lad,” replied the spectioneer; “but it won’t do to tell him he rows well. Make him too proud, and spoil him.”
“Trust me,” said the mate, with a grim smile. “I’ll talk to him in quite a different fashion.”
He lowered his brows as he spoke, and tried to look old and fierce.
“Boat there!” he shouted, as she was nearly alongside.
“Ay, ay, sir,” sang Harry, standing up and saluting.
Harry believed this was the correct thing to do, and he was not very far wrong.
“What do you mean, sir, by coming here at this time of day? The orders were, Mr Young Griffin, that every one should be on board by ten o’clock this forenoon; and look you here, I’ve a jolly good mind to bundle you on shore again, bag and baggage.”