For answer the swarthy captain of the punt unbuckled his belt. A despotic grin wrinkled his shrivelled countenance, and died out in ominous ripples among his scraggy beard. The red-headed boy got up on the seat of the milk-cart, and assumed an innocent air, an air of studied unconcern, an air which was intended to express complete and absolute neutrality in respect to impending hostilities.
“You are goin’ to whale me!” said Tom, still holding the coot and treading water.
“You never spoke a truer word in your life, my son,” replied the old man, in apparent calm. “It ain’t often you tells the truth, Tom, but you’ve hit it this onct—accidental like.”
There was a pause—embarrassing to both.
“Come out!” cried the old man.
“I won’t,” replied Tom, firmly; “I’ll be hanged if I do.”
“What!” yelled the old man. “What’s this—You’re a-goin’ to defy me, are you?”
“I ain’t defying you, but I ain’t goin’ to be wolloped with the buckle of that there strap, bare, I ain’t, I’d rather be drowned.”
Pagdin, senior, drew a long breath.