Dexter looked up sharply, and found that he had almost run against his old fishing friend of the opposite side of the river.
“Hullo!” stammered Dexter in reply.
“Got dry again?” said the boy, who was standing just back from the water’s edge, fishing, with his basket at his side, and a box of baits on the grass.
“Got dry?” said Dexter wonderingly.
“Yes! My!” cried the boy, grinning, “you did have a ducking. I ran away. Best thing I could do.”
“Yes,” said Dexter quietly; “you ran away.”
“Why, what yer been a-doing of? Your face is scratched, and your hands too. I know: you’ve been climbing trees. You’ll ketch it, spoiling your clothes. That’s got him.”
He struck and landed a small fish, which he took from the hook and dropped into his basket, where there were two more.
“They don’t bite to-day. Caught any down your garden!”
“No,” said Dexter, to whom the company of the boy was very cheering just then. “I haven’t tried since.”