The fisherman now turned his attention to straightening out his tackle, which had got into a sad mess during its bath, while I set to putting on my things. Pretty soon he drew near to where I stood, and, surveying me with a curious glance, “Well, Bubby, how you feel?” he asked.
“Oh! I feel all right, thank you, sir; only a little cold,” I answered.
“Well, Bubby, you was a fine boy,” he went on. “Well, how old was you?”
“I'm twelve, going on thirteen.”
“My kracious! Is dot all? Why, you wasn't much older as a baby; and yet so tall and strong already. Well, Bubby, what's your name?”
“Gregory Brace.”
“Krekory Prace, hey? Well, dot's a fine name. Well; you live here in Nawvich, I suppose—yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe your papa was in business here?”
“No, sir; my father is dead.”