“Say, Berry, see that old fisherman tacking in to shore, below there? Black Dobbins they call him, and he is the most picturesque swearer you ever heard of on the Cornwall coast. Say, I’ll go down there and give him a crown to swear a blue streak of lightning for me. Don’t you listen, darling, unless you want to have that creepy feeling running down your spine.”
He strolled away, but before he got to Black Dobbins, Berry called after him hastily:
“Oh, Charley, come back! You didn’t notice the letters with your mail; you were so angry over the news. Here’s a letter from your lawyer in California, and another from those dear, good Clines.”
“Read them while I attend to business,” he returned, keeping on, and saying to the fisherman:
“What luck, Dobbins?”
The net was nearly empty, and Dobbins replied with a string of appalling oaths to which Charley listened with perfect complaisance, after which he threw the angry fisherman a silver crown, exclaiming:
“Those are precisely my sentiments, Dobbins. Accept this token of my appreciation!”
While the man gaped in amazement, he laughed again and turned on his heel, going back to his wife.
“I feel better! That fellow comforted me. He swore at his ill luck and I applied all the ‘swear words’ to Rosalind, and paid him a crown,” he said drolly. “Ah, my dear, you look brighter! Any luck?”
“Oh, Charley, Charley!”