“Why, Dave!” Swickey reeled in her line swiftly, “you haven’t caught a fish!”
“Say, old man, why didn’t you shout?”
“I enjoyed every minute of it,” replied David, as Swickey caught up her paddle and swung into stroke with him. “The best part of fishing is just the opportunity to get away from one’s self a while, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” replied Bascomb. “I never was much of a dreamer, anyway.”
“Dreamer?” said Swickey, pausing to turn half round. “Dave isn’t a dreamer—are you, Dave?”
“He’s apt to be most anything, Swickey. He’ll bear watching,” said Bascomb. “You don’t know him as I do.”
The canoe slid swiftly over the darkening surface of the water till they came to the place where they had embarked. They stepped ashore and carried the canoe to the bushes.
“Now we’ll have to travel, Wallie. I’m sorry your glasses are broken, but you keep close to Swickey and we’ll make it all right. I’ll go ahead.”
“I’m agreeable,” said Bascomb, “but I feel like a hen with glass eyes.”
He blinked helplessly in the sudden gloom as they entered the forest.