back of his
head again, and laughingly gave his trousers a hitch up in front and
another behind, about the waist, kicking out one leg as he did so.
"That's salt-water sort, isn't it? I say," he added quickly, "are you
the skipper?"

"Me!" cried Josh, showing two rows of beautifully white teeth. "Nay, my
lad, I'm the crew. Who may you be?"

"What? my name? Dick--Richard Temple. This is my brother Arthur.
We've come down to stay."

"Have you, though?" said Josh, looking from one to the other as if it
was an announcement full of interest, while the lad on the pier frowned
a little at his brother's free-and-easy way.

"Yes, we've come down," said Dick dreamily, for he was watching Will's
busy fingers as he baited hook after hook. "I say," he cried, "what's
that stuff--those bits?"

"These?" said Will. "Squid."

"Squid? What's squid?"

Josh ceased winding the wire round his staff.

"Here's a lad as don't know what squid is," he said in a tone of
wondering pity.

"Well, how should I know? Just you be always shut-up in London and
school and see if you would."

"What? Don't they teach you at school what squid is?" said Josh
sharply.

"No," cried the boy.

"A mussy me!" said Josh in tones of disgust. "Then they ought to be
ashamed of themselves."

"But they don't know," said the boy impatiently. "I say, what is it?"

"Cuttle-fish," said Will.

"Cut-tle-fish!" cried Dick. "Oh! I know what that is--all long legs
and suckers, and got an ink-bag and a pen in its body."

"Yes, that's it," said Will, laughing. "We call it squid. It makes a
good tough bait, that don't come off, and the fish like it."

"Well, it is rum stuff," cried Dick, picking up a piece and turning it
over in his fingers. "Here, Taff, look!"

His brother screwed up his face with an aspect of disgust, and declined
to touch the fishes' _bonne-bouche_; but he looked at it eagerly all the
same.

"I say, what do you catch?" said Dick, seating himself tailor-fashion on
the deck opposite Will.

"What? on this line? Nothing sometimes."

"Oh! of course. I often go fishing up the river when we're at home, and
catch nothing. But what do you catch when you have any luck?"

"Lots o' things," said Josh; "skates, rays, plaice, brill, soles,
john-dories, gurnets--lots of 'em--small conger, and when we're very
lucky p'r'aps a turbot."

"Oh! I say," cried the boy, with his eyes sparkling, "shouldn't I like
to see conger too! The