“O,” Mr. Sip responded, “Nova Scotia? I remember I heard o’ his goin’ there. Say, sonny,” he went on, wading out to the middle of the creek with an ugly expression deepening over his red face as he realized that the bearer of the basket was alone, “What time is it?”
The boy retreated a few steps, pulling out a neat little silver watch, too polite to refuse the information. “Half past eleven,” he said, in his pleasant accent.
“O, but is that there watch correck?” inquired the evil-faced gentleman, taking several steps in the water toward that margin from which the lad had drawn back prudently. “Let me come up and see it for myself, wont you? That looks like a new watch.”
“I say, keep off!” cried the owner of the watch, all at once suspecting the designs of Mr. Sip and turning slightly pale. “Keep off, there, I say!” The intrepid little fellow dropped his rod and caught up a stone that lay near. “I—I don’t like your looks! I’ll throw this at you if you come any closer.”
The boy’s face was whiter at each word, although his spirit gave a ring to his threat. But Mr. Sip had invaded too many kitchens and terrified far too many helpless servant-maids to allow himself to be daunted by a boy well dressed and carrying a watch and a basket of good things. He uttered an angry oath and splashed violently toward the lad, stumbling among the sharp flints of the creek. It was open war begun by hot pursuit.
The path by which Gerald Saxton (for that happened to be the name of the solitary little fisherman) had made his way to the creek was steep and irregular. He ran up it now, panting, with Mr. Sip in stumbling chase, the latter calling out all manner of threats as he pursued. The boy was frightened greatly, but to be frightened is not to be a coward, and he knew that the path led into Farmer Wooden’s open meadow.
Through the green underbrush he darted, running up along the slope of the ravine, prudent enough not to waste his wind in cries that would not be at all likely to reach the farm-house, until he should dash out in the field itself, and planting his small feet carefully.
“If he catches up to me,” thought Gerald, “he will knock me over and get the watch and be off before I can help it! I must make the meadow!”
On hurtled Mr. Sip, floundering up the narrow path, still giving vent to exclamations that only quickened Gerald’s flight. Suddenly Mr. Sip saw an opportunity for a short cut by which Gerald might yet be overtaken. He bounced into it. Just as Gerald shot forth into the long meadow the furious philosopher found himself hardly ten yards in arrear.
“Now I’ve got yer!” he called, too angry to observe that the farm-house was in sight. “You drop—that basket—an’ that watch—or—” Now Gerald shouted lustily, still flying ahead.