“I say, Jem Roff, just hark at him!” cried Mercer impatiently.
“Oh, if you don’t want to hear me talk, I can keep my mouth shut. Good morning.”
He nodded shortly, and, shouldering his gun, marched off.
“Oh, I say, isn’t he provoking? and he never gave us leave.—Bob!”
No answer.
“Bob Hopley!”
But the keeper strode on without turning his head, and Mercer stood wrinkling up his forehead, the picture of despair.
“And there are such lots of fish in that pond,” he cried, “and I did want to show my friend here, Jem Roff.”
“Well, why don’t you go, then? He’s only teasing you.”
“Think so,” cried my companion, brightening up.