Part 92 (1/2)

But hang that Limpney for a narrow-minded, cla.s.sic-stuffed, mathematic-bristling prig! We'll have a better.”

Dexter felt a strange hesitancy; but the doctor evidently wished him to go and fish, so he took his rod, line, and basket, and was crossing the hall when he encountered Mrs Millett.

”It was very nice of you, my dear, and I'm sure it will do you good.

You did take it all now, didn't you?”

”Yes, every drop,” said Dexter, smiling; and the old lady went away evidently highly gratified.

Old Dan'l was busy tidying up a flower-bed as he reached the lawn, and, to Dexter's astonishment, he nodded and gave him another of his cast-iron smiles.

Further down the garden Peter was at work.

”Dig you up a few worms, Master Dexter? Course I will. Come round to the back of the old frames.”

A curious sensation of choking troubled Dexter for a few moments, but it pa.s.sed off, and in a short time he was furnished with a bag of red worms, and walking down to the river he sat down and began to fish with his mind going back to the night of his running away, and he seemed to see it all again; the undressing, the hesitation, and the cold plunge after his clothes, and all the rest of the miserable dreary time which had proved so different from what he had pictured in his mind.

Peter had said that the fish would ”bite like fun at them worms.”

But they did not, for they had no chance. The worms crawled round and round the canvas bag, and played at making Gordian knots with each other, while several fish came and looked at the unbaited hook which Dexter offered for their inspection, but preferred to leave the barbed steel alone.

For quite half an hour Dexter sat there dreamily gazing at his float, but seeing nothing but the past, when he started to his feet, for there was a splash in the water close to his feet, the drops flying over him, and there, across the river, grinning and looking very dirty, was Bob Dimsted.

”Yah! Who stole the boat?” he cried.

Dexter flushed up, but he made no reply. Only took out his line, and this time he baited it and threw in again.

”Yah; who stole the boat!” cried Bob again. ”I say, ain't he been licked? Ain't his back sore?”

Dexter set his teeth hard and stared at his float, as Bob baited his own line, and threw in just opposite, to begin fis.h.i.+ng just as if nothing had happened.

It was a painful position. To go on fis.h.i.+ng was like taking up with Bob again; to go away seemed like being afraid.

But Dexter determined upon this last, drew out his line, and was stooping to pick up his basket, when Bob broke into a derisive war-dance--

”Yah, yah!” he cried. ”Yer 'bliged to go. Yah! yer miserable, white-faced sneak! g'ome! g'ome! yah!”

Dexter banged down his basket again, and threw in his line with a big splash, as his eyes flashed defiance across the stream.

”Ah! it's all very fine,” said Bob; ”but yer dussen't do that if it weren't for the river. Why, if I'd got yer here I'd bung both yer eyes up for yer. Yah! yer sneak!”

”Here, you just be off. D'yer hear!” cried an angry voice; and Peter came up, broom in hand.

”She yarn't,” cried Bob? ”Who are you? This ain't your field. Stop as long as I like. Yah!”

”Wish I was over the other side and I'd pitch you in, you sarcy young vagabond.”

”So are you!” cried Bob. ”You dussen't touch me. Fish here as long as I like. Pair o' cowards, that's what you are--pair o' cowards. Fight either of yer one hand.”

”Wish we was over there,” said Peter; ”and we'd make you sing another song, my fine fellow.”

”Would yer? Yah! who cares for you!”