“Oh, I say,” I said, “I wish you wouldn’t. Who’s going to hit you? Carry this basket.”
I placed one in his hand, and gave him the pot containing the bait in the other, signed to him to follow, and in a dull, sad way he came behind to where the boat was moored; but as soon as he saw me step in, he began to look wildly out into the stream, and to shrink away.
“It’s all right,” I said, “there’s no slaver out there. Come along.”
But he shrank away more and more, with his eyes dilating, and he said a few words quite fiercely in his own tongue.
“Don’t be so stupid,” I said, jumping out and securing him just in time to stop him from running off with my bait and lines.
He struggled for a moment, but ceased, and in a drooping, dejected way allowed me to lead him to the boat, into which he stepped sadly, and dropped down in a sitting position, with his legs under him, and his head bent upon his breast.
“Oh, I say,” I cried, “don’t do that. Look here; we are going fishing. Here, take an oar and row.”
I had cast off the boat, and we were floating down the stream as I placed the oar in his hands, took the other, and in a sad, depressed, obedient way, he clumsily imitated my actions, rowing steadily if not ably on.
“There,” I said, when we were as far out as I wished to be; “that will do. Lay your oar in like that,” and I laid down my own.
He obeyed me, and then sat looking at me as mournfully as if I were going to drown him.