“Oh, won’t I give it you for this, old Big!” cried Bob. “There are no fish there at all. You gammoned me to make me come in and get my legs wet like yours are. Never mind, I’ll serve you out.”
“Why, there are some fish,” cried Bigley indignantly.
“Don’t you believe him, Sep,” said Bob. “It’s all nonsense.”
“Yes, there are,” I said from where I had climbed over the deepest part by clinging to the hurdles, “I can see them.”
“Oh no, you can’t, my lad. You’d like me to come splashing through the water there for you to laugh at me, but it won’t do. There isn’t a single fish in the place, only old Bigley—old Babby as his father calls him. I say, Sep, what a game! Did you ever see such a babby?”
“Don’t do that,” said Bigley sharply.
“Don’t do what?—splash you?” cried Bob. “There—and there.”
He suited the action to the word, and scooping up the water, he sent it flying over our tall schoolmate.
“You know what I mean,” said Bigley, speaking in a low angry tone such as I had never before heard from him.
“Why, what do you mean?” cried Bob offensively. “Do you want me to thrash you?”