“It’s just a saying like,” said the other, exchanging glances with his friends.
“I don’t take you,” said the cook. “How can a place be a sayin’?”
“Well, it come through a chap about here named Captain Piggott,” said the fisherman, speaking slowly. “He was a wonderful queer old chap, and he got out of his reckoning once, and made—ah, South Amerikey, warn’t it, Dan?”
“I believe so,” said the old man.
“He thought he’d found a new island,” continued the fisherman, “an’ he went ashore an’ hoisted the Union Jack, and named it arter hisself, Piggott’s Bay. Leastways that’s the tale his chaps gave out when they come ’ome. Now when anybody’s a bit out o’ their reckoning we say they’re looking for Piggott’s Bay. It’s just a joke about here.”
He began to laugh again, and Sam, noting with regret that he was a big fellow and strong, turned away and followed in the footsteps of the cook, who had already commenced the ascent of the cliff. They paused at the top and looked back; Stone-pen Quay was still laughing.
Moved by a common idea of their personal safety, they struck inland, preferring an additional mile or two to encountering Dick. Conversation was at a discount, and they plodded on sulkily along the dusty road, their lips parched and their legs aching.
They got back to the Seamew at seven o’clock, and greeting Henry, who was in sole charge, with fair words and soothing compliments, persuaded him to make them some tea.
“Where’s Dick?” inquired Sam casually as he sat drinking it.
“Ain’t seen ’im since dinner,” said the boy. “I thought he was with you p’raps.”