Eddy gave a contemptuous sniff, which might have meant anything.
“There’s lots at Dr Grayson’s,” said Dexter eagerly, for the sight of the roach gliding about in the clear water in the shade of the boat-house excited the desire to begin angling. “Shall I go and fetch the rods and lines?”
Eddy leaned back in the garden seat, and rested his head upon his hand.
In despair Dexter sighed, and then recalled Sir James’s words about their enjoying themselves.
It was a lovely day; the garden was very beautiful; the river ran by, sparkling and bright; but there was very little enjoyment so far, and Dexter sat down upon the grass at a little distance from his young host.
But it was not in Dexter’s nature to sit still long, and after staring hard at the bright water for a few minutes, he looked up brightly at Edgar.
“I say,” he cried; “that bullock didn’t hurt you the other day, did it?”
Edgar shifted himself a little in his seat, so that he could stare in the other direction, and he tried to screw up his mouth into what was meant to be a supercilious look, though it was a failure, being extremely pitiful, and very small.
Dexter waited for a few minutes, and then continued the one-sided conversation—
“I never felt afraid of bullocks,” he said thoughtfully. “If you had run after them with your stick—I say, you got your stick, didn’t you?”