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"An' you say that you've nothin' to keep you here! What's this?" said Slag, laying his strong hand tenderly on the blue side of the boat. "Well, I'll be sorry to leave her, of course, an all my friends in Greyton, but friends will get along well enough without me, an' as for the boat, she'll never want a good coxswain while Joe Slag's alive an' well."

The burning match was quickly plunged into Hayward's handful of shavings, which blazed up as he thrust it into Slag's nest; and Slag, holding the nest with the tender care of a loving sick-nurse, and the cool indifference of a salamander, till it was a flaming ball, crammed it into the heart of the pile of sticks.

"I say, Joe," said Hayward, interrupting, for he feared that Slag's anecdote might not tend to render the pork breakfast more palatable. "Sir?" said Slag. "Will you just go to the bow and take a squint ahead? I think there seems to be something like an end o' the cliffs in view your eyes are better than mine."

Mitford did not hear, but a touch of Slag's toe caused him to feel and to rise. O'Connor was already astir, preparing breakfast. Cold boiled mussels and a bit of pork may be good food, but it is not appetising. Consequently they did not linger long over the meal, but were soon striding up the mountain-side rejoicing in the fresh air and sunshine.