“But will you get up!” said Dexter.
“Of course I will, if you call loud enough. There, don’t bother, I’m ever so tired with rowing, and I shall go to sleep at once.”
Bob kept his word as soon as darkness had set in, and Dexter sat listening to the lapping of the water, and wondered whether, if they camped out like this in a foreign land, crocodiles would come out of the rivers and attack them.
He sat down, for he soon grew tired of standing and walking about, and listened to Bob’s heavy breathing, for the boy had gone off at once.
It was very dark under the trees, and he could only see the glint of a star from time to time. It felt cold too, but as he drew himself close together with his chin down upon his knees he soon forgot that, and began thinking about the two owls he had heard the past night. Then he thought about the long-legged herons he had seen fishing in the water; then about their own fishing, and what capital fish the smelts were.
From that he began to think about hunting out the cray-fish from the banks, and how one of the little things had nipped his fingers quite sharply.
Next he began to wonder what Helen Grayson thought about him, and what the doctor had said, and whether he should ever see them again, and whether he should like Bob any better after a time, when camping out with him, and how long it would be before they reached one of the beautiful hot countries, where you could gather cocoa-nuts off the trees and watch the lovely birds as they flitted round.
And then he thought about how long it would be before he might venture to call Bob.
And then he began thinking about nothing at all.
When he opened his eyes next it was morning, with the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing, and Bob Dimsted had just kicked him in the side.