“Yah!” cried Bob derisively, as he began to feel safe. “Come back, you young scoundrel!” roared the man fiercely. “Here, Digges, fetch ’em back.”
He was a big black-whiskered man in a velveteen jacket, evidently a gamekeeper, and he spoke to his companion as if he were a dog.
This man hesitated for a moment or two.
“Go on! Fetch ’em back,” cried the keeper.
“But it’s so wet.”
“Wet? Well, do you want me to go? In with you.”
The underkeeper jumped off the bank at once into the water, which was about up to his knees; but by this time Bob was working the boat along more quickly, and before the underkeeper had waded out many yards Bob had seated himself, put out the second scull, and, helped by the stream, was able to laugh defiance at his would-be captors.
“Here, I ain’t going any further,” grumbled the underkeeper. “It will be deep water directly,” and he stopped with the current rippling just about his thigh.
“Are you coming back!” cried the keeper, looking round about him and pretending to pick up a big stone.
“No! Come arter us if you want us,” cried Bob, while Dexter crouched down watching the man’s hand, ready to dodge the missile he expected to see launched at them.