“Same, thanky’. A little troubled wi’ the rheumatics.”
“Tell her to take a lump o’ sugar wi’ five drops o’ turpentine.”
“I will, thanky”—and so on for half an hour, at the end of which time the party thought it time to rise, wipe their mouths, shoulder the anker, and return to the boat.
No sooner were they in it, and had thrust off from shore, and prepared to make a second start, than Oliver touched Wyvill and said, pointing to the land, “Look yonder.”
“What!”
“There is that clerk. Running, actually running.”
“I reckon he be.”
“And in the direction of Pentyre.”
“So he be, I reckon.”
“And what do you think of that?”