The regret was vain: he could not take back the blow, and his forehead wrinkled up and his spirit felt depressed as he went on.
“Poor old Taff!” he said to himself. “I don’t think he’s so strong as I am, and that makes him ill-tempered. And I’d been promising father that I’d take care of him; and then I’ve got such a brutal temper that I go and begin knocking him about.—Oh, I wish I wasn’t so hot and peppery! It’s too bad, that it is.
“I suppose we sha’n’t go conger-fishing now,” he said gloomily. “Taff won’t care to go.
“Yes, he will,” he said after a few minutes’ pause. “I’ll tell him at dinner-time I’m very sorry; and then we shall make it up, and it will be all right! Why, hallo! there he is going down to the boats. He must have been round the other way. I’ll bet a penny he heard what I said to father about the fishing, or else he has seen Will.”
The latter was the more correct surmise, though Arthur had also heard his father give his consent.
“Hi! Taff!” shouted Dick; but his brother did not turn his head, stalking straight down to the pier and getting to where Will and Josh were at work preparing their tackle for the night’s fishing.
“I’m very sorry, Taff,” said Dick humbly. “I hope I did not hurt you much.”
Arthur made no reply, but began to speak to Will.
“Papa has given me leave to go with you,” he said; “but I don’t think I should care about being out so late.”
“Better come, sir,” said Josh. “It will be rare sport. I know about the best place along our bay, and it hasn’t been fished for six months, has it, Will?”