“No; but I’m going directly. It’s no use for me to have a mate who hasn’t got any pluck. Now then, are you coming, or are you not!”
“I’m coming,” said Dexter. “But stop a moment. I’ll be back directly.”
“Whatcher going to do!”
“Wait a moment and I’ll show you.”
Dexter had had a happy thought, and turning and running in his trousers to the tool-shed, he dragged out a small deal box in which seeds had come down from London that spring. It was a well-made tight box, and quite light, and with this he ran back.
“Why, what are you doing?” grumbled Bob, as soon as he heard his companion’s voice.
“Been getting something to put my clothes in,” whispered Dexter. “I don’t want to get them wet.”
“Oh,” said Bob, in a most unconcerned way; and he began to whistle softly, as Dexter finished undressing, tucked all his clothes tightly in the box, and bore it down to the water’s edge, where it floated like a little boat.
“There!” cried Dexter excitedly. “Now they’ll be all dry when I’ve got across. Ugh! how cold the water is,” he continued, as he dipped one foot. “I wish I’d brought a towel.”
“Yah! what does a fellow want with a towel? You soon gets dry if you run about. Going to walk across!”