out.
The old un said I wasn't to spoil him, and I won't. He's one o' them
soft sort o' boys as is good stuff, like a new-bred net; but what do you
do wi' it, eh?"

"Bile it," growled old Mike, "Cutch or Gambier."

"Toe be sure," said Josh; "and I'm biling young Will in the hot water o'
adversitee along with the cutch o' worldly knowledge, and the gambier o'
fisherman's gumption, till he be tanned of a good moral, manly, sensible
brown. I know."

Then old Mike winked at Josh Helston, and Josh Helston winked solemnly
at old Mike Polree, who threw a couple of hake slung on a bit of spun
yarn over one shoulder, his strapped-together boots stuffed with coarse
worsted stockings, one on each side, over the other shoulder, squirted a
little tobacco juice into the harbour, and went off barefoot over the
steep stones to the cottage high up the cliff, muttering to himself
something about Pilchar' Will being a fine young chap all the same.

"That's all nonsense about the Cornishmen being giants, Josh," said
Will, as he rapidly passed the long lengths of net through his hands, so
that they should lie smooth in the hold, ready for shooting again that
night without twist or tangle. "Old writers were very fond of
stretching men."

"Dessay they was," said Josh; "but they never stretched me. I often
wish I was ten inches longer."

"It wouldn't have made a better fellow of you, Josh," said Will, with a
merry twinkle in his eye.

"I dunno 'bout that," said Josh disparagingly; "I ain't much account,"
and he rubbed his nose viciously with the back of his hand, the result
being that he spread a few more scales upon his face.

"Why, you're the strongest man I know, Josh. You can throw anyone in
Peter Churchtown, and I feel like a baby when you grip hold of me."

Josh felt flattered, but he would not show it in the face of such a
chance for giving a lesson.

"Babby! And that's just what you are--a big soft, overgrown babby, with
no more muscle in you than a squid. I'd be ashamed o' myself, that I
would, if I was you."

"Can't help it, Josh," said the young fellow, wrinkling his sun-browned
forehead, and still turning the soft nets into filmy ropes by passing
them through his hands.

"Can't help it! Why, you ain't got no more spirit in you than a
pilchar'--no more'n one o' these as run its head through the net last
night, hung on by its gills and let itself die, whar it might ha'
wriggled itself out if it had had plenty o