“Ah, it’s all very well,” said the boy, “but there wouldn’t be many that you caught, mate. Ah! No, he’s off again. Keep a little furder back.”
Dexter obeyed, and sat down on the grass, feeling in a half-despairing mood, but as if the company of this rough boy was very pleasant after what he had gone through, and that boys like this were more agreeable to talk to than young tyrants of the class of Edgar Danby.
“Fish don’t half bite to-day,” said Bob Dimsted. “I wish you’d got a rod here, I could lend you a line—single hair.”
“But I haven’t got a rod.”
“Well, run home and fetch it,” said Bob.
“Run home and fetch it?” How could he run home and fetch it? How could he ever go back to the doctor’s again?
“No,” he said at last, as he shook his head. “I can’t go and fetch it.”
“Then you can’t fish,” said the boy, “and ’tain’t much use. It’s no fun unless they bite, and some days it don’t matter how you try, they won’t.”
“Won’t they?” said Dexter, and then he started to his feet, for a familiar voice had spoken close to his ear—
“Why, Dexter!”