held his tar-kettle and brush out like a pair of balances to make him turn, and showed a good-looking young mahogany face—that is to say, it was paler than his father's, and not so ruddy and polished.
"Hullo, Master—Lance," he said, widening his mouth and showing his white teeth, joining in the laughter as the visitor threw himself down on the sand and roared.
"Whisked himself round and held his tar-kettle and brush out like a pair of balances."
"I can't help it, Master—Lance."
"Try again," cried the new-comer, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"I do try," growled the boy, beginning once more in a deep bass, and then ending in a treble squeak. "There's somethin' got loose in my voice. 'Tarn't my fault. S'pose it's a sort o' cold."
"Never mind, gruff un. But I didn't know the boat