“Yes, I thought so then, but you’re all ready and can swim across, and get it directly. Here, come along!”
“But—but,” stammered Dexter, who was shivering in the chill night air.
“What, you’re cold? Well, come along. I’ll carry the box. Let’s run. It’ll warm yer.”
Dexter was ready with another protest, but he did not utter it. His companion seemed to carry him along with the force of his will, but all the same there was a troublous feeling forcing itself upon him that he had made a mistake, and he could not help a longing for his room at the doctor’s with its warm bed, comfort, safety, and repose.
But he knew it was too late, and he was too much hurried and confused to do more than try to keep up with Bob Dimsted as he ran by his side carrying the box till they had reached the meadow facing Sir James Danby’s garden; and there, just dimly seen across the river, was the low gable-end of the boat-house beneath the trees.
“Hush! don’t make a row,” whispered Bob. “Now then, slip in and fetch it. Why, you could almost jump it.”
“But, Bob—I—I don’t like to go. I’m so cold.”
“I’ll precious soon warm yer if you don’t look sharp,” cried Bob fiercely. “Don’t you try to make a fool of me. Now then, in with you!”
He had put the box down and gripped Dexter fiercely by the arm, causing him so much pain that instead of alarming it roused the boy’s flagging spirit, and he turned fiercely upon his assailant, and wrested his arm free.
“That’s right,” said Bob. “In with you. And be sharp, and then you can dress yerself as we float down.”