“Well, don’t, now. This footboard is shaky and you might slip.”
“Oh, Davy would fish me out. Wouldn’t you, Davy?”
“Of course—fish what?”
“Nothing.” Bascomb hastened to change the subject. “How far is it to this mysterious fish-hatchery that you’ve discovered, anyway? From what you say, I should call it an aquarium—that is, if they bite as you say they do.”
“About three miles. Just wait till you’ve made a few casts. Nanette can tell you—”
“Nanette won’t, but perhaps Swickey will,” she said, smiling at Bascomb. As she paused, he stepped beside her and David took the lead, striding up the slope at a pace that set Bascomb puffing.
“It’s a desecration to call you Swickey,” said Bascomb, as he tramped along, swinging the lunch-bucket. “My! but our Davy’s in a hurry—I don’t think I could do it.”
“Yes, you can if you point your toes straight ahead when you walk, like this. You swing your foot sideways too much. Try it.”
“Thank you; but I referred to calling you by your nickname.”
“Well, I said ‘try it,’ and you don’t usually miss a chance like that.”