But us was not wishful to introod, sir, an' iver since us seed the
board here, her's been keepin' her distance in the boat yonder; on'y
us stepped ashore to larn ef there was anything us cou'd do to make
things ship-shape an' fitty for 'ee."
At the end of this long address, Peter, whose mahogany face was
several shades deeper, pulled up, and resumed his hat.
"Ship-shape an' fitty--not wishful for to introod. That's so,
Peter," echoed his brother.
Mr. Fogo looked at the pair helplessly, and again at Caleb, whose
eyes were obstinately averted.
"Caleb!"
"Sir."
"Ask Miss Dearlove if she would mind stepping ashore."
With a sudden brightening of face, Caleb called her name.
Tamsin looked up.
"Ef 'ee please, you'm to come ashore, to wance!"
The girl rowed a couple of strokes, grounded the boat, and stepped
lightly ashore with a big basket and an unembarrassed glance at the
Notice.
"There's a few young potatoes at the bottom," she said, with a
curtsey, as she handed her gift to Mr. Fogo. "They're the earliest
and best anywhere in these parts. Can you cook potatoes?" she asked,
suddenly turning to Caleb. Beneath her sun-bonnet her pretty cheek
was flushed, and her chin thrust forward with just a shadow of
defiance.
"Iss, to be sure," grinned Caleb.
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