“None at all.”
“What?”
There was utter astonishment in Bob Dimsted’s tones as he sat motionless, with the sculls balanced on the rowlocks, staring wildly through the gloom, as Dexter now sat down and fought hard with an obstinate stocking, which refused to go on over a wet foot—a way stockings have at such times.
“Did you say you hadn’t got any money?” cried Bob.
“Yes. I sent it all in a letter to pay for the boat in case we kept it.”
“What, for this boat?” cried Bob.
“Yes.”
“And you call yourself a mate?” cried Bob, letting the scull blades drop in the water with a splash, and pulling hard for a few strokes. “Well!”
“I felt obliged to,” said Dexter, whose perseverance was rewarded by a complete victory over the first stocking, when the second yielded it with a better grace, and he soon had on his shoes, and then began to dry his ears by thrusting his handkerchief-covered finger in the various windings of each gristly maze.
“Felt obliged to?”