And Rory would reply, “Yes, my boy, indeed, it’s food fit for a king.”
After luncheon was the time for a little well-earned rest. The young men would stroll down towards the lake, by whose banks there was always something to be seen or done for half-an-hour, if it were only skipping flat stones across its surface; while the two elder ones would enjoy the dolce far niente and their odium cum dignitate seated on a log.
“Well,” said old Ap, one day, “I suppose she is to be cutter-rigged, though for my own part I’d prefer a yawl.”
“There is no accounting for tastes,” replied McBain; “and as to me, I don’t care for two masts where one will do. She won’t be over large, you know, when all is said and done.”
“Just look you,” continued Ap, “how handy a bit of mizen is.”
“It is at times, I grant you,” replied McBain.
“To be sure,” said Ap, “you may sail faster with the cutter rig, but then you don’t want to race, do you, look see?”
“Not positively to race, Mr Ewen,” replied McBain, “but there will be times when it may be necessary to get into harbour or up a loch with all speed, and if that isn’t racing, why it’s the very next thing to it.”
“Yes, yes,” said old Ap, “but still a yawl is easier worked, and as you’ll be a bit short-handed—”
“What!” cried McBain, in some astonishment; “an eight-ton cutter, and four of us. Call you that short-handed?”