“Yes,” said Bart, savagely. “You turned coward and upset me. I don’t know whether I’m most ashamed of you or of myself.”
He walked straight back toward where the soft yellow light of the lantern could be seen under the trees, leaving Dinny staring, trembling, and scratching his head.
“He’s gone and left me alone,” muttered Dinny. “Sure, and is it a Kelly as is a coward? If it was to face a man—or two men—or tin men—I’d do it if I had me shtick. But a dead body as begins to move in its grave as soon as ye thry to lift it out, and says quite plain, wid a kick of its legs, ‘Lave me alone, ye spalpeen!’ why, it’s too much for a boy.”
“Are you coming, Dinny?” cried Bart, as he approached the lantern.
“Bedad, and he’ll think me a coward if I don’t go,” said Dinny, panting. “Sure, and what are ye thrimbling about? D’ye call yourselves legs, and go shakking undher a boy like that? Faix, I’m ashamed of ye! Go along, do; and it isn’t me that’s freckened, but me legs!”
He mastered his dread and ran swiftly after Bart, who had once more reached the sandy trench.
“I thought you’d come, Dinny,” said Bart. “You’re not the lad to leave a mate in the lurch.”
“Thrue for ye, me boy; but are we to tak’ him back in the boat?”
“Yes, it’s the captain’s orders.”
“Howly Pater, but it’s dreadful work!” said Dinny.