“Never mind, my lad,” cried the young Londoner, coming down the cliffs; “I’ll go with you, and to Black Gang Chine, too; for that is just where I want to go. Never mind the old fellow’s croaking. It is all very well for women and children,” continued he, glancing contemptuously at Mrs. Merton and Agnes; “but we are hearts of oak, my boy: ain’t we?” “You had better not go, Jack,” said the father to his son. “You know Black Gang Chine of old: and she’s a bad one with a tide setting in shore; as I know to my cost.” The young man paid no attention to his father’s remonstrance; but turned aside with the Londoner to settle what was to be paid for the boat. Agnes, who was very fond of dogs, in the meantime began to pat the head of Neptune, who stood beside her, wagging his tail, as though he knew her partiality, and was waiting to be caressed. “Look, mamma,” cried Agnes, “how singularly he is marked: he has a white throat, with a large, black, heart-shaped mark on the chest.” Mrs. Merton turned to look at the dog, and perceived the mark of which her daughter had spoken; which was, indeed, very singular, and very distinct. The Londoner, having finished his bargain, now whistled off his dog; and the young fisherman hastened to the beach to prepare his boat. As he passed, the father repeated his ominous cry of “Jack, you’d better not go.” The young man, however, only replied: “Don’t be a fool, father. He’s given all I asked; and I could have had as much more, if I had but known.” “Oh! that self-will,” said the old man; “it’ll be the ruin of you, Jack.” “Never mind, if it is,” said the young fellow; and, whistling a tune, he hurried down to the beach. Both Mrs. Merton and Agnes were very much shocked at the recklessness and disobedience of the young man; and Mrs. Merton asked the father, why he had not warned the young Londoner of his danger. “And much good it would have done,” said the old man; “and much good it would have done,” he repeated. “If my own son won’t listen to me, how can I expect that a cockney would?” “But why, then, did you warn us?” asked Agnes. “You,” said he, looking at her; “oh! that’s quite a different thing. It may have done you some good. Besides,” muttered he, as he stumped away, “I’d a little girl of my own once, and she was drowned.” The waiter from the inn now approached, to tell them that Mr. Merton was waiting breakfast; and Mrs. Merton asked him, if he thought the water was smooth enough for a boat. “By no means, ma’am,” said the waiter: “there’s a young gentleman from London, who’s gone out shooting, that ordered a boat last night; and I called him as soon as it was light, but he would not get up then, and now it’s too late.”