“We has to,” said Pete.
“None of your tea,” said Philip.
“Coorse not, none of your ould grannie's two-penny tay,” said Pete.
It was quite dark by this time, and the tide was rising rapidly. There was not a star in the sky, and not a light on the sea except the revolving light of the lightship far a Way. The boys crept closer together and began to think of home. Philip remembered Aunty Nan. When he had stolen away on hands and knees under the parlour window she had been sewing at his new check night-shirt. A night-shirt for a Carrasdhoo man had seemed to be ridiculous then; but where was Aunty Nannie now? Pete remembered his mother—she would be racing round the houses and crying; and he had visions of Black Tom—he would be racing round also and swearing.
“Shouldn't we sing something, Phil?” said Pete, with a gurgle in his throat.
“Sing!” said Philip, with as much scorn as he could summon, “and give them warning we're watching for them! Well, you are a pretty, Mr. Pete! But just you wait till the ships goes wrecking on the rocks—I mean the reefs—and the dead men's coming up like corks—hundreds and ninety and dozens of them; my jove! yes, then you'll hear me singing.”
The darkness deepened, and the voice of the sea began to moan through the back of the cave, the gorse crackled no longer, and the turf burned in a dull red glow. Night with its awfulness had come down, and the boys were cut off from everything.
“They don't seem to be coming—not yet,” said Philip, in a husky whisper.
“Maybe it's the same as fishing,” said Pete; “sometimes you catch and sometimes you don't.”
“That's it,” said Philip eagerly, “generally you don't—and then you both haves to go home and come again,” he added nervously.