“Ho, ho!” laughed Frere; “don't be afraid. I'll take care of you.”
“Can you swim, Mr. Bates?” asked Sylvia.
“Yes, miss, I can.”
“Well, then, you shall take me; I like you. Mr. Frere can take mamma. We'll go and live on a desert island, Mr. Bates, won't we, and grow cocoa-nuts and bread-fruit, and—what nasty hard biscuits!—I'll be Robinson Crusoe, and you shall be Man Friday. I'd like to live on a desert island, if I was sure there were no savages, and plenty to eat and drink.”
“That would be right enough, my dear, but you don't find them sort of islands every day.”
“Then,” said Sylvia, with a decided nod, “we won't be ship-wrecked, will we?”
“I hope not, my dear.”
“Put a biscuit in your pocket, Sylvia, in case of accidents,” suggested Frere, with a grin.
“Oh! you know my opinion of you, sir. Don't speak; I don't want any argument”.
“Don't you?—that's right.”