“Is this a good day for fishing?”
“Pretty fair. I guess you won’t come in without catching some.”
Roake was the personification of indolence. A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded his face, which had a sleepy, listless look. No one would have dreamed, from his appearance, or from any observable surroundings, that Rocky Beach was devoted to any other purposes than fishing and sailing.
“What is this unfortunate man’s name?” inquired Mr. Withers.
“His name is Luke Felton, but we call him ‘Dummy’ around here.”
“That would seem to me too much like mocking his infirmity,” rejoined Mr. Withers, in a solemn tone.
Everything now being in readiness, Luke Felton motioned to Mr. Withers to enter the boat. The mute followed, and took the oars.
They were soon some distance from the shore, and dropped anchor. The fishing was good, and apparently afforded great excitement and delight to the Reverend Mr. Withers.
The pleasure was prolonged until evening, when they returned to the shore. Roake was awaiting them.
“There appears to be a natural cave in the bluff yonder,” said Mr. Withers. “Is it open for exploration?”