“Finish it off then, and never mind putting two more casks in.”
“Look ye here, my lad,” said the old fellow, solemnly, “do you suppose I want that there raft to capsize and shoot us off among the sharkses?”
“Of course not. Seen any of them, Bob?”
“Lots, my lad. They come swimming round this morning as if looking out for bits for breakfast. Why, if that raft capsized they’d chew us up like reddishes. I’m not going to risk that, my lad. I’ve got a character to lose, you see. I’m making this raft, and I want it to be a raft as you and the doctor’ll be proud on—a raft as we can row or sail or go fishing with.”
“Yes, fishing,” said Carey, eagerly. “When am I to have that line and try for something?”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” said the old sailor, coolly. “Let’s get the raft done first.”
“Get the raft done first!” cried Carey, angrily. “You’ll never get it done.”
“Oh, yes, I will, my lad; and it’ll be one you could dance on if you liked. Don’t you be in such a precious hurry.”
“Precious hurry, indeed. Do you know what it means to be sitting here and hardly allowed to move day after day?”
“Course I do, my lad. I see you.”