“Well, whatcher going to do!” said Bob at last, with provoking coolness. “You lost the boat, and you’ve got to find it.”
“I will try, Bob,” said Dexter humbly. “But come and help me.”
“Help yer? Why should I come and help yer? You lost it, I tell yer.”
Bob jumped up and doubled his fists.
“Now then,” he said; “get on, d’yer hear? get on—get on!”
At every word he struck out at Dexter, giving him heavy blows on the arms—in the chest—anywhere he could reach.
Dexter’s face became like flame, but he contented himself with trying to avoid the blows.
“Look here!” he cried suddenly.
“No, it’s you’ve got to look here,” cried Bob. “You’ve got to find that there boat.”
Dexter had had what he thought was a bright idea, but it was only a spark, and it died out, leaving his spirit dark once more, and he seemed now to be face to face with the greatest trouble of his life. All his cares at the Union, and then at the doctor’s, sank into insignificance before this terrible check to their adventure. For without the boat how could they get out of England? They could not borrow another. There was a great blank before him just at this outset of his career, and try how he would to see something beyond he could find nothing: all was blank, hopeless, and full of despair.