“What?” yelled Josh. “Why, you’d drown us!”
“Hold your noise, Josh. He daren’t.”
“Daren’t! Why not? You are only boys, and all boys are a nuisance. You’ve spoilt five of my canvases, and wasted a lot of my paint, making scarecrows—at least, one of you did. But there, I won’t be hard; I’ll only drop in the one who did it. Who was it? Was it you, Josh Carlile?”
Josh was silent.
“Ah! I expect it was. It was he, wasn’t it, Will?”
Will was silent too.
“Now I’m sure it was. Now then, Will; out with it. Tell me. It was Josh Carlile, wasn’t it?”
“Shan’t tell,” cried Will; “and if you don’t let us get up directly, I’ll poke holes through all your canvases, and pitch your paints into the dam.”
The artist filled his mouth as full of tobacco smoke as he could, bent down, and puffed it in a long stream full in the boy’s face, making him struggle afresh violently, but all in vain.
“Well, you are a nice boy—very,” said the artist. “Your father must be very proud of you. It is quite time you were washed; you’ve a deal of mischief in you that would be much better out. Now then, it was Josh Carlile, wasn’t it?”