“But I can’t row two oars,” said Dexter.
“Well, nobody asked you to. You’ve got to sit there with the boat-hook, and push her off if ever she runs into the bushes. The stream’ll take her down like it does a float.”
“How far are we away from the town!”
“I d’know.”
“Well, how soon will it be morning!”
“How should I know? I haven’t got a watch, have I? If I’d had one I should have sold it so as to have some money to share with my mate.”
“Have you got any money, Bob?”
“Course I have. Don’t think I’m such a stoopid as you, do yer!”
Dexter was silent, and in the darkness he laid in his oar after the fashion of his companion, and took up the boat-hook, while Bob lifted one of the cushions from the seat, placed it in the bottom of the boat, and then curled up, something after the fashion of a dog, and went off to sleep.
Dexter sat watching him as he could dimly make out his shape, and then found that the stern of the boat had been caught in an eddy and swung round, so that he had some occupation for a few moments trying to alter her position in the water, which he did at last by hooking the trunk of an overhanging willow.