His face wore a deepened colour, and he smiled awkwardly.
"Good-morning," replied Mr.Fogo.
"A fine mornin'," repeated Peter, with a long gaze at the board, "an' no mistake." There was another long interval, during which everybody stared hard at the Notice.
"'Tes a powerful fine mornin'," Peter re-asserted very slowly, "ef so be as your station in life es in noways connected with turmuts.
Ef 'tes the less us says about the mornin' the better." With this observation Peter looked hard at Mr.Fogo, as if the ball of conversation now lay in that gentleman's hands.
"What do 'ee think o' this 'ere Notice ?" broke in Caleb.
Paul twitched his yellow bandanna and smiled evasively.
"'Tes very pretty writin', sir, sure-ly," he replied, addressing Mr.
Fogo.

"Nice thick down-strokes, an' all as it shou'd be." "Uncommon fash'nubble et makes the beach look, sir, a'ready," added Peter.
Some mental reservation seemed to lurk behind this criticism.
Mr.Fogo looked dubiously from the Twins to Caleb, who stood with his eyes fixed on his handiwork.
"Axin' your pard'n, sir, an' makin' so free as to mention et," began Peter at length, pulling off his hat and twirling the brim between his fingers, "but us was a bit taken aback, not understandin' as fash'nubbleness was to begin so smart; or us wou'dn't have introoded--spesh'ly Tamsin.

Tamsin was thinkin' this mornin' as a pound of fresh butter might be acceptable to the gentl'm'n down at Kit's House, wi' ha'f a dozen fresh eggs or so, 'cos her Minorcy hen began to lay agen last week, an' the spickaty Hamburg as allays lays double yolks; an' Paul an' me agreed you wudn' be above acceptin' a little present o' this natur', not seemin' proud, an' Tamsin shou'd bring et hersel', the eggs bein' hers in a manner o' speakin'.
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.