“Yes, ever so much,” replied Dexter, between his set teeth.
“Well, jest you recollect it was you hit him that whack on the head. I didn’t do nothing.”
“Yes, you did,” said Dexter sharply. “You said, yah! at him, and called him names.”
“No, I didn’t. Don’t you be a sneak,” whined Bob. “You were ever so much worse than me. Is he coming closer?”
“Yes.”
It was a fact, closer and closer, and the tide ran so strongly now that the boys had hard work to make much progress. They did progress, though, all the same, for their boat was narrow and sharp. Still the current was dead against them, and their want of movement added to their despair.
Bad as it was for them, however, it was worse for the man in his heavy little broadly-bowed tub; and so it happened that just as Bob began to row more slowly, and burst into a fit of howling, which made Dexter feel as if he would like to turn and hit him over the head with his oar—a contact of scull against skull—the man suddenly ceased rowing, turned in his seat, and sat shaking his fist at them, showing his teeth in his impotent rage.
“There!” cried Bob, who was transformed in an instant. “We’ve bet him. He can’t pull no further. Yah! yah!”
Bob changed back to his state of cowardly prostration, and began to tug once more at his oar, for his derisive yell galvanised the man once more into action, and the pursuit was continued.
“Oh!” howled Bob. “Who’d ha’ thought o’ that?”