old fellow, with a
low, curious laugh, which sounded as if an accident had happened to the
works of a wooden clock. "He's mighty fond o' making himself doctor's
bills. I'd ha' cured him if he'd come to me."

"What would you have given him, Daygo?"

"Give him?" said the man, rubbing his great brown eagle-beak nose with a
finger that would have grated nutmeg easily: "I'd ha' give him a mug o'
water out of a tar tub, and a lotion o' rope's end, and made him dance
for half an hour. He'd ha' been `quite well thank ye' to-morrow
morning."

Vince laughed.

"Ay, that's what's the matter with him, young gentleman. A man who
can't ketch lobsters and sell 'em like a Christian, but must take 'em
home, and byle 'em, and then sit and eat till you can see his eyes
standing out of his head like the fish he wolfs, desarves to be ill.
Well, I must be off and see what luck I've had."

"Come on, Mike," cried Vince, springing up--an order which his companion
obeyed with alacrity.

The old fellow frowned and stared.

"And where may you be going?" he asked.

"Along with you," said Vince promptly.

"Where?"

"You said you were going out to look at your lobster-pots and nets,
didn't you?"

"Nay, ne'er a word like it," growled the man.

"Yes, you did," cried Mike. "You said you were going to see what luck
you'd had."

"Ay, so I did; but that might mean masheroons or taters growing, or
rabbit in a trap aside the cliff."

"Yes," said Vince, laughing merrily; "or a bit of timber, or a sea
chest, or a tub washed up among the rocks, mightn't it, Mike? Only
fancy old Joe Daygo going mushrooming!"

"You're a nice sarcy one as ever I see," said the man, with another of
his wooden-wheel laughs. "I like masheroons as well as any man."

"Yes, but you don't go hunting for them," said Vince; "and you never
grow potatoes; and as for setting a trap for a rabbit--not you."

"You're fine and cunning, youngster," said the man, with a grim look;
and his keen, clear eyes gazed searchingly at the lad from under his
shaggy brows.

"Sit on the cliff with your old glass," said Vince, "when you're not
fishing or selling your lobsters and crabs. He don't eat them himself,
does he, Mike?"

"No. My father says he makes more of his fish than any one, or he
wouldn't be the richest man on the island."

The old man scowled darkly.

"Oh! Sir Francis said that, did he?"

"Yes, I heard him," cried Vince; "and my father said you couldn't he