“I say: don’t, Dave. What an old nut-cracker you are! You laugh like the old watchman’s rattle in the garret. Be quiet, Tom!”
“But Mr Bootherboomp!” roared Tom, bursting into a second fit of laughter.
“It’s butterbump, Mr Marston. It’s what they call those tall brown birds something like herons. What do you call them in London?” said Dick.
“Oh, bitterns!”
“Yes, that’s it. Come on!”
“Nay,” said Dave; “I don’t think you gentlemen would care for such poor sport. On’y a few fish’.”
“You never mind about that! Jump in, Mr Marston. Who’s going to pole?”
“Nay, I’ll pole,” said Dave. “If yow mean to go we may as well get theer i’ good time; but I don’t think it’s worth the trouble.”
“Get out! It’s rare good fun, Mr Marston; sometimes we get lots of fish.”
“I’m all expectation,” said Marston as Dave smiled the tight smile, which made his mouth look like a healed-up cut; and, taking the pole, began to send the punt over the clear dark water. “Shall we find any of those curious fish my men caught in the river the other day?”