“Where is Master Dexter?” said the doctor.
Dan’l made a jerking motion with his thumb over his right shoulder, and the doctor walked on over the grass toward the bottom of the grounds.
The little party advanced so noiselessly that they were unheard, and in another minute they were near enough to hear Dexter exclaim—
“Now, then; this time—catch!”
The doctor stopped short in time to see, according to Dan’l’s version, the Ribstons and Sturmers thrown across the river to half the town.
“Half the town,” according to Dan’l, consisted of Bob Dimsted, who had laid down his rough fishing-rod, and was holding half an apple in one hand, munching away the while, as he caught another deftly; and he was in the act of stuffing it into his pocket as he caught sight of the doctor, and stood for a few moments perfectly motionless. Then, stooping quickly, he gathered up his tackle and ran.
“What’s the matter!” cried Dexter.
Bob made no reply, but ran off; and as he did so, Dexter laughingly took another apple from his pocket—a hard green Sturmer pippin, which he threw with such force and accuracy that it struck Bob right in the middle of the back, when the boy uttered a cry of alarm, ran more swiftly, and Dexter stood for a moment roaring with laughter, and then turned to find himself face to face with the trio who had come down the garden.
“And them pippins worth twopence apiece at Christmas, sir!” cried Dan’l.
“What are you doing, Dexter!” cried the doctor sternly.