Bob, safe at a distance, made a derisive gesture.
“None of your sarse, you poaching young vagabond. I know what you came there for. Be off with you.”
“Shan’t,” cried Bob, as he settled down to fish a hundred yards away.
“Always coming here after that boy,” grumbled Dan’l. “If I could have my way I’d bundle ’em both out of the town together. Young robbers,—that’s what they are, the pair of ’em.”
Dexter’s face flushed, and he was about to respond, but the old gardener began to move away.
“Doctor ought to be ashamed of himself,” he grumbled, as he stood for a moment or two looking round in search of Dexter, but never looking above the brim of his broad straw hat, and the next moment Dexter was left alone seated in the crown of the old willow, very low-spirited and thoughtful, as he came down from his perch, brushed the bits of green from his clothes, and then walked slowly up toward the house, taking the other side of the garden; but of course coming right upon Dan’l, who followed him about till he took refuge in the doctor’s study, with a book whose contents seemed to be a history of foreign lands, and the pictures records of the doings of one Dexter Grayson and his companion Bob. For the old effervescence consequent upon his having been kept down so long was passing off, and a complete change seemed to be coming over the boy.
