“I say, lads,” said the first speaker, “come for a sail with us to-morrow, or next day, will ye?”
“We would,” we replied, both in a breath, and both in the same words precisely, “if auntie would let us.”
“Ah! bless her, bring auntie too. We’ll cushion the boat, Bill, won’t us?”
“That we will, Joe.”
“Well, we said we’d tell auntie,” and away we went. We only met one man who spoke to us going back, and he said—“Good evening, young double and quits.” Of course we did not say a word to auntie that evening about the invitation, but after a turn on the beach next day, during which we met our fisher friends, who renewed the request, we broached the subject.
Auntie tossed her head a little at first, but when we mentioned about the cushions she smiled and said—“Good people, I dare say. Well, it is evident they know we are gentlefolks. You can tell them we’ll go to-morrow afternoon.”
After school hours Jill and I ran to tell our new-found friends that we were to be allowed to come, and that auntie was coming as well.
They were so pleased that they kept us a whole hour in their queer, old-fashioned cottage, in which everything was as strange and wonderful to us as some of the places we read of in our old story-books.
Poor Jill! It was really strange the dependence he had upon me, his twin brother—his elder brother—his second self. I but mention the following in proof of this. It happened about the time we first made the acquaintance of the boatmen. Jill had gone to look for nests all by himself for a wonder. Unfortunately he fell over a cliff. Not all the way down, else there would have been no more Jill—and no more Jack, perhaps, for I hardly think I could have lived without my brother. He had been in his perilous position for hours before found. Listening at last near the top of the cliff, I could hear his plaintive, pleading voice calling me, though he knew not I was there.