“Nay. It’s very queer, Master Nic, and I s’pose it’s because I’m zo empty.”
“Thinking of food, Pete?” said Nic sadly.
“Yes, Master Nic. More I tries not to, more I keeps on ’bout veal-pie, cold zalmon, and zyder.”
“Ah yes, we must contrive to get some provisions after a bit.”
They rowed on in silence for some time, with the sun gathering power and beating down upon their heads, and flashing back from the surface of the river, till at last Pete said suddenly:
“We must run the boat ashore close to those trees, Master Nic, or we shall be going queer in the head for want of cover.”
“Yes; I feel giddy now, Pete. Do you think we could tie a few leaves together for hats?”
“You’ll zee, my lad,” said the man. “I could do it best with rushes, but I’ll work zomething to keep off the zun.”
The boat was run in under the shade of a tree whose boughs hung down and dipped in the running stream; and as Pete laid in his oar he glanced down over the side and saw fish gliding away, deep down in the transparent water.
“Zee um, zir?” said Pete.