No more was said on the subject then, for there was enough to interest the patient in examining with a magnifying glass the curious creatures captured; but Carey had not forgotten, and that evening when the doctor was below and Bostock had brought up the bag of tools he used to work upon the clumsy-looking raft he was building, the boy lay back watching him chewing away at a piece of tobacco, and bending thoughtfully over the structure.
“I say,” cried Carey at last in a peevish tone, “when are you going to finish that raft?”
“Finish it, my lad?”
“Yes, finish it. How many more days are you going to be?”
Bostock screwed up his face, rose erect in a very slow and deliberate way, laid down the auger he held, and took off his cap to scratch his head.
“Finish it?” he said, thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t quite know; you see, I must make it reg’lar strong.”
“Of course,” cried Carey, “but you spend so much time thinking about it.”
“Well, yes, my lad, I do, certainly; but then, you see, I have to do the thinking and making too. There’s on’y me, you see.”
“Why didn’t you let the doctor help you? He did want to.”
“Ye–es, he did want to, my lad,” said the old sailor, in the slowest and most provoking way. “He’s a wonderful clever man too, is the doctor. See what a beautiful job he’s making of your broken timbers; but what does he know about making a raft? This is my job, and bime-by it’ll be my job to make a boat, which’ll want more thinking about than even this.”