But they did not, for they had no chance. The worms crawled round and round the canvas bag, and played at making Gordian knots with each other, while several fish came and looked at the unbaited hook which Dexter offered for their inspection, but preferred to leave the barbed steel alone.
For quite half an hour Dexter sat there dreamily gazing at his float, but seeing nothing but the past, when he started to his feet, for there was a splash in the water close to his feet, the drops flying over him, and there, across the river, grinning and looking very dirty, was Bob Dimsted.
“Yah! Who stole the boat?” he cried.
Dexter flushed up, but he made no reply. Only took out his line, and this time he baited it and threw in again.
“Yah; who stole the boat!” cried Bob again. “I say, ain’t he been licked? Ain’t his back sore?”
Dexter set his teeth hard and stared at his float, as Bob baited his own line, and threw in just opposite, to begin fishing just as if nothing had happened.
It was a painful position. To go on fishing was like taking up with Bob again; to go away seemed like being afraid.
But Dexter determined upon this last, drew out his line, and was stooping to pick up his basket, when Bob broke into a derisive war-dance—
“Yah, yah!” he cried. “Yer ’bliged to go. Yah! yer miserable, white-faced sneak! g’ome! g’ome! yah!”
Dexter banged down his basket again, and threw in his line with a big splash, as his eyes flashed defiance across the stream.