“’Tain’t unlikely, ’tain’t unlikely, mate. Have you found your oars an’ things yet what was stolen from ye?”
“Not yet,” answered Jack, with an apprehensive glance at Hal, who, leaning on the handle of the pick, was viewing Bill Glass with frank dislike. “We—we haven’t taken any steps in the matter yet.”
Bill shook his head. “Wouldn’t leave it too long, mates,” he said. “Them Portigees be slippery critters. Like as not the feller as took them things has sold ’em by now over to Tuckersville. Would you know ’em again if you seen ’em?”
“Yes, even if they’d been painted!” snapped Hal.
“That’s fortunate, then, for you might look in the junk shops an’ get ’em back. Well, I’ll take these clams along up. Wish you good luck, mates.”
“I’ll go with you and find a pan or something to put them in,” said Jack. Bill was silent until they reached the tent and had emptied the clams out into the receptacle Jack provided. Then, with a jerk of a big, stubby thumb over his shoulder:
“He don’t like me, that young feller. I know his father. Used to sail on his boats. Fine man, but pig-headed as all get-out, he be. Well, so long, mate. Hope you like them clams.”
“Thank you,” answered Jack. “We’re very much obliged to you. I wish, though, you’d let us pay you for them.”
Bill shook his head as he swung his pail to his arm and thrust his big hands into the pockets of his trousers, which, today, were tucked into a pair of rubber boots. “I don’t want no money for ’em, mate,” he growled. “I be in debt to ye, in a way o’ speakin’, an’ Honest Bill Glass always pays his debts, mate. Cal’ate we be in for a storm afore long.” And Bill tramped off slowly down the hill to the wharf, leaving Jack to wonder what he had meant.