He had no need to do anything of the sort, for nothing
in the world would have induced him to make up his mind on the
spot as to so weighty a proposal.
"It's not likely that you're serious," he objected. "You are a
young man and strong-limbed, I should imagine, but you've
education--one can tell it by the way you pronounce your words.
It's but a poor living, after all, to be made here."
"I like the place," Tavernake declared doggedly. "I am a man of
small needs. I want to work all through the day, work till I am
tired enough to sleep at night, work till my bones ache and my
arms are sore. I suppose you could give me enough to live on in
a humble way?"
"Take a bite of supper with me," Nicholls answered. "In these
serious affairs, my daughter has always her say. We will put the
matter before her and see what she thinks of it."
They lingered about the quay until the light from Wells
Lighthouse flashed across the sea, and until in the distance they
could hear the moaning of the incoming tide as it rippled over
the bar and began to fill the tidal way which stretched to the
wooden pier itself. Then the two men made their way along the
village street, through a field, and into the little yard over
which stood the sign of "Matthew Nicholls, Boat-Builder." At one
corner of the yard was the cottage in which he lived.
"You'll come right in, Mr. Tavernake," he said, the instincts of
hospitality stirring within him as soon as they had passed
through the gate.
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