“Tancook,” said the old man.
“Tancook?” repeated Bruce; “and what’s the name of that other one?”—pointing to the outer island, which they had first encountered.
“That thar?” said the old man, looking where Bruce pointed,—“that thar? Why, we call that thar island by the name of Ironbound.”
It was a fine name, a sonorous and at the same time an appropriate name, and deeply impressed the boys.
“Fine farming country this,” said Bruce, once more plunging into the conversation.
“Wal, pooty so so,” said the old man. “We ain’t got no reason to complain; though, what with diphthery, an sich, it’s mighty hard on children.”
“A good many people here, apparently,” continued Bruce, in a lively key.
“Wal, pooty tol’ble,” said the old man; “’bout a hundred families on this here.”
“Farmers or fishermen?” asked Bruce.
“Wal, a leetle of the one, an a leetle of the tother.”