“Yes, you must. Don’t throw them away. We had better keep up the look of being fishermen.”
“Very well, sir; just as you like. But I say, Master Fred, what’s the good of all this? Don’t let’s go.”
“Not go?”
“I don’t see why we should take the trouble to go and look after a fellow like Nat. He never was any credit to me, and he never will be. Like as not, if he gets better, he’ll give me a topper.”
“Come along, and hold your tongue, Samson. Do you suppose I can’t see through you?”
“Yes, I do, sir,” said Samson, with a chuckle. “Chap did try to make a hole through me just after we turned soldiers, but it’s all grown up again. I say, Master Fred, though, ser’us—think Nat is alive?”
“Yes, of course, poor fellow! No, don’t hurry now. Some one may be watching us. Let’s pretend to be picking out a good place.”
“Poor fellow!” grumbled Samson, as he obeyed, and began holding overhanging boughs aside and leaning over the water. “Don’t suppose you’d say, ‘Poor fellow!’ if I was to be lying wounded there, Master Fred.”
“No, of course not,” said Fred, angrily; “I should say I was very glad to get rid of you, and I wouldn’t stir a step to bring you bread or water or anything.”
Samson stopped short, and burst into a roar of laughter.