“Was that his head?” said Bob, in rather a piteous voice, as he sat there resting upon his oars.
“Yes,” said Dexter, in a horror-stricken whisper. “I hit him right on the head.”
“You’ve been and gone and done it now, then,” whimpered Bob. “You’ve killed him. That’s what you’ve done. Never did see such a chap as you!”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Dexter huskily.
“Yes, that’s what you always says,” cried Bob, in an ill-used tone. “I wish I hadn’t come with yer, that I do. I say, ought we to go and pick him up? It don’t matter, do it?”
“Yes, Bob; we must go back and pull him out,” said Dexter, with a shudder. “Row back through the reeds. Quick, or he may be drowned!”
“He won’t want any drowning after that whack you give him on the head. I don’t think I shall go back. Look! look!”
Dexter was already looking at the frantic muddy figure upon the bank, up which it had climbed after emerging from the reeds. The man was half-mad with rage and disappointment, and he ran along shaking his fists, dancing about in his fury, and shouting to the boys what he would do.
His appearance worked a miraculous effect upon the two boys. Dexter felt quite light-hearted in his relief, and Bob forgot all his sufferings and dread now that he was safely beyond their enemy’s reach. Laying the blades of the sculls flat, as the boat drifted swiftly on with the tide, he kept on splashing the water, and shouting derisively—
“Yah! yah! Who cares for you? Yah! Go home and hang yourself up to dry! Yah! Who stole the boat!”