Bob thoroughly expressed my feelings when, after amusing himself for a few minutes by throwing dry cushions of moss down at Bigley, he exclaimed:
“Well, what’s the good of stopping here? Come on down again!”
“I’m ready,” I said, “only I wish old Big had come up too.”
“I don’t,” said Bob; “what’s the good of wishing. I’m not going to make my hands sore with tugging. He had no business to grow so fat.”
“I should like to come up,” cried Bigley dolefully.
“Ah, well, you can’t!” shouted back Bob. “Serves you right pretending to be a man when you’re only a boy.”
“I can’t help it,” replied Bigley with a sigh.
“Let’s have one more try to have him up,” I cried.
“Sha’n’t. What’s the good? I don’t see any fun in trying to do what you can’t.”
“Never mind: old Big will like it,” I said. “Come on.”