“Beg pardon, sir,” said Dan’l sourly; “but he’ve broke a great branch off this here tree.”
“Well, I couldn’t help it,” said Dexter, in an ill-used tone. “I caught my line in the tree, and was obliged to get up and fetch it, and—stop a minute. I can see it. All right.”
He ran off along the river-bank till they saw him stoop just where the wall dipped down into the river. There he found the rod floating close to the edge, and, securing it, he soon after drew in the loose branch he had cut off the tree, and disentangled his line, with the little roach still on the hook.
“There!” he cried in triumph, as he ran back with rod, line, and fish; “look at that, Miss Grayson, isn’t it a beauty, and— What are you laughing at!”
This was at Peter Cribb, who was grinning hugely, but who turned away, followed by Dan’l.
“Them as is born to be hanged’ll never be drowned,” grumbled the old gardener sourly, as the two men went away.
“No fear of him being drowned,” said Peter. “Swims like a cork.”
“It’s disgusting; that’s what I say it is,” growled Dan’l; “disgusting.”
“What’s disgusting?” said Peter.
“Why, they cuddles and makes a fuss over a boy as is a reg’lar noosance about the place, just as any other varmint would be. Wish he had drowned himself. What call was there for me to come and bring a rake!”