“But would the boat be big enough to cross the great sea?”
“Who’s going to cross the great sea?” cried Bob. “Of course I shouldn’t. I should only go out about six miles from shore, and keep close in, so as to land every night to get grub, or anything else. P’r’aps to go shooting. My father’s got an old gun—a fine un. Think I don’t know what I’m about? Shoots hares with it, and fezzans.
“There’s another!” he exclaimed, as he hooked and landed an unfortunate little perch, which he threw into his basket with a look of disgust. “I’m sick of ketching such miserable little things as these. I want to get hold of big sea-fish of all kinds, so as to fill the boat. Some chaps would be glad to go,” he said again, as he threw his line in once more.
“Yes,” said Dexter thoughtfully; “I should like to go.”
“You!” said Bob, with a mocking laugh. “You! Why, you’d be afraid. I don’t believe you dare go in a boat!”
“Oh yes, I dare,” said Dexter stoutly.
“Not you. You’re afraid of what the doctor would say. You daren’t even come fishing with me up the river.”
“They said I was not to go with you,” said Dexter quietly; “so I couldn’t.”
“Then what’s the use of your saying you’d like to go. You couldn’t.”
“But I should like to go,” said Dexter excitedly.