As he spoke, the artist took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and began to fill up.
“Get up!” shouted Will. “You hurt.”
“So do you,” said the artist, “you nasty, bony, little wretch! You feel as if you must be half-starved.”
As he uttered the words there was a loud scratching, and he struck a match, lit his pipe, and began to smoke, while the boys, now feeling themselves perfectly helpless, lay waiting to see what he would do next.
“Ha!” said the artist. “I think that’ll about do. You chaps are never happy unless you are playing me some trick. I’ve put up with it for a long time; but you know, young fellows, they say a worm will turn at last. Well, I’m a worm, and I’m going to turn, and have my turn.”
“What are you going to do?” cried Will.
“Want to know?”
“Of course I do.”
“You’d better leave us alone,” whimpered Josh.
“Think so? Well, I will, after I’ve done. I’m going to wash some of the mischief out of you. I shall just tie your hands together—yes, I can easily do it now—and then drop you both into the pool.”