“Oh, if you want to quarrel, Bob, we may as well go home,” I said.
“There, just hark at him, Big! Quarrel! Just as if I wanted to quarrel. There, I shall go.”
“No, no, don’t go, Bob,” I cried.
“No, no, don’t go, Bob,” chimed in Big. “It’s holidays now, and we can get up a row when we’re at school.”
The force of this, and its being waste of time now the long-expected holidays had come, made an impression on Bob, who sat down and began sending rounded pieces of slate skimming through the air towards the little stream.
“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want to quarrel,” he grumbled out. “I ain’t so fond of—there, you chaps couldn’t do that.”
“Ha! Ha! Couldn’t we?” I cried, as a stone he threw went plash into the stream, and I jerked a piece of slate so far that it went right over.
This made Bob jump up, and, as there was plenty of ammunition, the old contention was forgotten in the new, Bigley Uggleston joining in and helping us throw stones till we grew tired, when we looked round for something fresh to do.
“Let’s climb right to the top of Bogle’s Beacon,” I said, as my eyes lit upon the highest crags at our side of the ravine.
“Oh, what’s the good?” said Bigley. “It’ll make us so hot.”