“She’s something large and heavily sparred for a fishing-boat, isn’t she, Hector?”
“Gude sakes, John, and wha’ d’ye ken o’ fushin’-boats whateffer?”
“The True Believer? ’Tis a strange name!”
“’Tis a graund, godly name, John, an’ she’s owned by a godly man, a man as sings bass in the church choir, a worthy fushin’-body, as I ken fine. Dinna fash ye’self, John lad; wi’ luck an’ a favourin’ wind we should be ashore a little after dawn.”
“Why, then, this fishing-boat doth not fish to-night, Hector?”
“I’m no’ tellin’ ye she will.”
“But, Hector, if a fishing-boat fisheth not then fishing-boat she cannot be except she fish for other than fish, and yet, so fishing, she fisheth not truly, and truly can be no true fishing-boat——” But finding Sir Hector had vanished, he drew his companion into a corner well screened from the wind, and here, despite the dark, contrived a seat with canvas and a coil of rope.
“Rose,” said he, as they sat side by side, “it seems that some time to-morrow we shall have reached our journey’s end and must say good-bye. Shall you miss me, child ... grieve a little?”
For a moment she was silent, and when she answered her tone was primly demure.