“We’re ’igh an’ dry, Mister Byrd, an’ not on t’ mud. Are t’ other banks ’ere like this’n?”
“Aye. Best way ter sit this out, lad. If’n we’d been further dahn t’ coast, we’d ’ave nipped in be’ind t’ Margate Sands and beached on ’em. This is better—more sheltered see—if’n t’ blow lasts more’n one tide.”
Ned shivered, looking at the sea entrance toward Whitstable. “Couldn’t we lay in t’ ’arbour yonder?” Indicating Harry’s kennel, the dog’s nose just visible at the entrance, he grinned. “Might be a bit more sheltered, an’we’d be afloat if’n we needs ter move t’ Pride.”
“Aye, an trapped wi’ t’ wind in this quarter. See, lad, that’s a dead lee shore, an’ t’ beach there be tricky. See them smacks layin’ on t’ strand? They’s been drawn clear o’ t’ tide. We could lay on t’ beach, but if’n t’ wind
