Having dressed himself, Brinkley climbed in the same direction. He found William seated on the edge of the crag, looking the reverse of amiable, and amusing himself by throwing stones in the direction of the sea.
“You seem to know this place well?” said the young man, standing over him.
William Jones replied, without looking up.
“I ought to; I were born here. Father were born here. Know it? I wish I know’d as well how to make my own fortin’.”
“And yet they tell me,” observed the other, watching him slily, “that William Jones of Abertaw has money in the bank, and is a rich man!”
He saw William’s colour change at once, but recovering himself at once, the worthy gave a contemptuous grunt, and aimed a stone spitefully at a large gull which just then floated slowly by.
“Who told you that?” he asked, glancing quickly up, and then looking down again. “Some tomfool, wi’ no more sense in un than that gull. Rich? I wish I was, I do!” Brinkley was amused, and a little curious. Laughing gaily, he threw himself down by William’s side. William shifted his seat uneasily, and threw another stone.
“My dear Mr. Jones,” said the young man, assuming the flippant style which Matt found so irritating, “I have often wondered how you get your living.”
William started nervously.
“You are, I believe, a fisherman by profession; yet you never go fishing. You possess a boat, but you are seldom seen to use it. You are not, I think, of a poetical disposition; yet you spend your days in watching the water, like a poet, or a person in love. I conclude, very reluctantly, that your old habits stick to you, and that you speculate on the disasters of your fellow creatures.”