“Don’t take any notice of the buffoon, Gilmore,” cried Distin sharply. “Pull!”
“I say, old cock of the weather,” whispered Macey, leaning over the side, “I’d give something to be as strong as you are.”
“Why?” asked Vane in the same low tone.
“Because my left fist wants to punch Distie’s nose, and I haven’t got muscle enough—what do you call it, biceps—to do it.”
“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,” said Vane, laughing.
“Don’t,” whispered Macey; “you’re making Distie mad again. He feels we’re talking about him. Go on about the vegetables.”
“All right. There you are then. That’s all branched bur-reed.”
“What, that thing with the little spikey horse-chestnuts on it?”
“That’s it.”
“Good to eat?”