"Sir," replied the man, "I have made it exactly according to your directions."
"You have, have you?" continued Fink. "Well, then, as a punishment, you shall go with us; you must see that it is but fair that we should be drowned together."
"No, sir, that I will not do, with so much wind as this," returned the man, decidedly.
"Then stay ashore and make sawdust pap for your children. Give me the mast and sails." He fitted in the little mast, hoisted and examined the sails, then took them down again, and laid them at the bottom of the boat, threw in a few iron bars as ballast, told Anton where to sit, and, seizing the two oars, struck out from shore. The pumpkin danced gayly on the water, to the great delight of the builder and his friends, who stood watching it.
"I wanted to show these lazy fellows that it is possible to row a boat like this against the stream," said Fink, replacing the mast, setting the sail, and giving the proper directions to his pupil. The wind came in puffs, sometimes filling the little sail, and bending the boat to the water's edge, sometimes lulling altogether.
"It is a wretched affair," cried Fink, impatiently; "we are merely drifting now, and we shall capsize next."
"If that's the case," said Anton, with feigned cheerfulness, "I propose that we turn back."
"It doesn't matter," replied Fink, coolly; "one way or other, we'll get to land. You can swim?"
"Like lead. If we do capsize I shall sink at once, and you will have some trouble to get me up again."
"If we find ourselves in the water, mind you do not catch hold of me, which would be the surest way of drowning both. Wait quietly till I draw you out; and, by the way, you may as well be pulling off your coat and boots; one is more comfortable in the water en négligé." Anton did so at once.