“How so?”
“Why, how do I know, and how do you know, that these fellows are not pirates in disguise?”
“Because,” said Henry, “one of them is an old friend—that is, an acquaintance—at least a sort of intimate, who has been many and many a time at our house before, and my mother knows him well. I can’t say I like him—that is to say, I don’t exactly like some of his ways—though I don’t dislike the man himself.”
“A most unsatisfactory style of reply, Henry, for a man—ah, beg pardon, a boy—of your straightforward character. Which o’ the three are you speaking of—the grampus?”
“No, the other big handsome-looking fellow.”
“And you’re sure you’ve known him long?” continued the boy, while an expression of perplexity flitted over his face.
“Quite sure; why?”
“Because I have seen you often enough, and your house and your mother, not to mention your cat and your pigs, and hens; but I’ve never seen him before to-day.”
“That’s because he usually comes at night, and seldom stays more than an hour or two.”
“A most uncomfortable style of acquaintance,” said Corrie, trying to look wise, which was an utterly futile effort, seeing that his countenance was fat and round, and rosy, and very much the reverse of philosophical. “But how do you know that the grampus is not the pirate?”