Gwenny could see (without getting down) through the
floor-gaps, seemed to be urging the fisher-gentleman to give it up,
and pointing out that the grey mullet was down here, and didn't mean
to be caught. But he paid no attention, and only went on doing all the
things that fishers do. He ascribed the fishes' reluctance to bite to
the sort of sky, and not to common-sense on their part. He tried the
other side instead. He lost his worm, and blamed him for going off the
hook--which he would have done himself, and he knew it! He believed,
honestly, that a fish of fabulous dimensions had thought seriously
of biting, and would have bitten, only you got in the light, or made
a noise.

But there was no noise to speak of, really, except the clunk-clunk of
one or two moored rowboats down below, and the sh-r-r-r-r-p (if that
spells it) of their corrugated plank-sides, as they dipped and dripped
alternately. They were close to the bottom flight of stairs, whose
lowest step was left forlorn in the air, and had to be jumped off when
a real spring-tide came that knew its business.

Gwenny's remark, "Ze man is fissin'," seemed to point to an incubation
of an idea, familiar to maturer life, that fishing is more truly a
state than an action. But the addendum--that he didn't cass any
fiss--betrayed her inexperience. Maturity does not call attention
to ill-success; or, if it does, it lays it at the door of the fish.

"What a jolly header one could have from here! No railings or
anything. No--ducky! I won't put you down to look over the edge.
That's not a thing for little girls to do."

"You'd never get up again, Sarah. You'd have to swim ashore."

"One could swim round the steps, Jeremiah--at least, according to
the tide. It's slack water now."

"I wish, Mr. Fenwick--(so does Julius)--that you would make that
girl reasonable. She'll drown herself before she's done."

"I know she will, Mrs. Paganini. Sure and certain! Nobody can stop
her. But Vereker's going to bring her to."

"Where _is_ the doctor, Tish? Didn't he say he was coming?" This was
Bradshaw. He usually says things to his wife, and leaves publication
to her.

"Of course he said he was coming. I wonder if anything's the matter?"

"Oh, no! It's his ma! The Goody's put an embargo on him, and kept him
at home. Poor Prosy!" Sally is vexed, too. But observe!--she knows
perfectly well that nothing but the Goody would have kept Prosy from
his appointment.

No one in particul