Dexter did catch one the next moment, thrusting his oar in so deeply that he could hardly withdraw it, and bringing forth quite a little storm of bullying from his companion.
“Here, I shall never make nothing o’ you,” cried Bob. “Give’s that there oar.”
“No, no, let me go on pulling,” said Dexter good-humouredly, for his fit of anger had passed off. “I’m not used to it like you are, but I shall soon learn.”
He tried to emulate Bob’s regular rowing, and by degrees managed to help the boat along till toward midday, when, seeing an attractive bend where the river ran deep and dark round by some willows, Bob softly rowed the boat close up to the bank, moored her to the side, and then began to fit together his tackle, a long willow wand being cut and trimmed to do duty for a rod.
This done, a very necessary preliminary had to be attended to, namely, the finding of bait.
Bob was provided with a little canvas bag, into which he thrust a few green leaves and some scraps of moss, before leaping ashore, and proceeding to kick off patches of the bank in search of worms.
Dexter watched him attentively, and then his eyes fell upon a good-sized, greenish-hued caterpillar which had dropped from a willow branch into the boat.
This seemed so suitable for a bait that Dexter placed it in one of Bob’s tin boxes, and proceeded to search for more; the boughs upon being shaken yielding six or seven.
“Whatcher doing of?” grumbled Bob, coming back to the boat, after securing a few worms. “Yah! they’re no use for bait.”
All the same, though, the boy took one of the caterpillars, passed the hook through its rather tough skin, and threw out some distance in front of the boat, and right under the overhanging boughs.