“It's all right,” said Peter, “but somehow I can always see how pretty things are much better when I've something to do. Let's get down on to the towpath and fish from there.”
Phyllis and Bobbie remembered how the boys on the canal-boats had thrown coal at them, and they said so.
“Oh, nonsense,” said Peter. “There aren't any boys here now. If there were, I'd fight them.”
Peter's sisters were kind enough not to remind him how he had NOT fought the boys when coal had last been thrown. Instead they said, “All right, then,” and cautiously climbed down the steep bank to the towing-path. The line was carefully baited, and for half an hour they fished patiently and in vain. Not a single nibble came to nourish hope in their hearts.
All eyes were intent on the sluggish waters that earnestly pretended they had never harboured a single minnow when a loud rough shout made them start.
“Hi!” said the shout, in most disagreeable tones, “get out of that, can't you?”
An old white horse coming along the towing-path was within half a dozen yards of them. They sprang to their feet and hastily climbed up the bank.
“We'll slip down again when they've gone by,” said Bobbie.
But, alas, the barge, after the manner of barges, stopped under the bridge.
“She's going to anchor,” said Peter; “just our luck!”