“I think it’s rather mean, you know,” continued the persistent Johnny, “for a fellow like you, who doesn’t need it, to come and fill the market all at once, while we unfortunate devils can scarcely get a crust. And there are two heron just around the point, and I have my breech-loader and a dozen cartridges here.”
“Go away, Johnny.” That was all the answer he got.
“I’ll go out and tell Lord Newstead that you are a cantankerous brute. I suppose he’ll have the decency to offer me luncheon, and I dare say I could get him a shot at these heron. You are a fool not to come, Lavender;” and so saying, the young man pushed out again, and he was heard to go away talking to himself about obstinate idiots and greed and the certainty of getting a shot at the heron.
When he had quite gone, Lavender who had scarcely raised his eyes from his work, suddenly put down his palette and brushes—he almost dropped them, indeed—and quickly pat up both his hands to his head, pressing them on the side of his temples. The old fisherman in the boat beyond noticed this strange movement, and forthwith caught a rope, hauled the boat across a stretch of water, and then came scrambling over bowsprit, lowered sails and nets, to where Lavender had just sat down.
“Wass there anything the matter, sir?” he said, with much evidence of concern.
“My head is a little bad, Donald,” Lavender said, still pressing his hands to his temples, as if to get rid of some strange feeling. “I wish you would pull in to the shore and get me some whisky.”
“Oh, ay,” said the old man, hastily scrambling into the little black boat lying beside the smack; “and it is no wonder to me that this will come to you, sir, for I hef never seen any of the gentlemen so long at the pentin as you—from the morning till the night; and it is no wonder to me that this will come to you. But I will get you the whushky; it is a grand thing, the whushky.”
The old fisherman was not long in getting ashore and running up to the cottage where Lavender lived, and getting a bottle of whisky and a glass. Then he got down to the boat again, and was surprised that he could nowhere see Mr. Lavender on board the smack. Perhaps he had lain down on the nets in the bottom of the boat.
When Donald got out to the smack he found the young man lying insensible, his face white and his teeth clenched. With something of a cry the old fisherman jumped into the boat, knelt down, and proceeded in a rough-and-ready fashion to force some whisky into Lavender’s mouth. “Oh, ay, oh, yes, it is a grand thing, the whushky,” he muttered to himself. “Oh, yes, sir, you must hef some more; it is no matter if you will choke. It is ferry good whushky and will do you no harm whatever; and oh, yes, sir, that is ferry well, and you are all right again, and you will sit quite quiet now, and you will hef a little more whushky.”
The young man looked around him. “Have you been ashore, Donald? Oh, yes—I suppose so. Did I tumble? Well, I’m all right, now; it was the glare of the sea that made me giddy. Take a dram for yourself, Donald.”