"Come, wake up! Do 'ee hear? What be glazin' at?"
"Eh? Dear me!" stammered Mr. Fogo, as well as he might for the
shaking. "What's all this?"
"Axin' your pardon, sir," explained Caleb, continuing the
treatment, "but 'tes all for your good, like ringin' a pig.
You'm a-woolgatherin'; wake up!"
Mr. Fogo came to himself, and sat down upon a log of timber to
rearrange his thoughts and his spectacles. Caleb stood over him and
sternly watched his recovery.
"You are quite right, Caleb: my thoughts were wandering.
Your treatment is a trifle rough, but honest. Are those
extraordinary people gone?"
"Iss, sir; here they were, but gone--like Jemmy Rule's larks."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Figger o' speech, sir. They be gone right enough--Adm'ral Buzza in
full fig, and a row o' darters in jallishy buff. I sent 'em 'bout
their bus'ness. Look 'ee here, sir: ef you'll promise to sit quiet
and keep your wits at home, I'll run down to town for a happord o'
tar."
"Tar, Caleb?"
"Iss, sir, tar!" and with this Caleb turned on his heel and strode
away across the shingle. In a moment or two he had untied his boat
from the little quay, and was pulling down towards Troy Town.
When he returned, it was with a huge board, a pot of tar, and a
brush. He looked anxiously about the beach, but Mr.
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