“Then you think I am a spring chicken, do you, Will?” demanded Oscar with a curl of the lip.
“You know I don’t think any such thing; but you don’t know how to steer a sailboat any more
than I do. You were a little too fast to think of doing it so soon,” reasoned Orwell with proper deference, though he ventured to speak the truth as he understood it.
“If the fellow hadn’t put on airs, and ordered me about as though I had been his servant, I wouldn’t say a word,” continued Oscar. “As it is, he insulted me, and pitched me into the lake.”
“He didn’t pitch you into the lake, Oscar. You are not used to a boat tossed about by the waves, and you fell overboard.”
“Didn’t he make the boat tip more when I stood up on purpose to pitch me into the lake?” demanded Oscar angrily.
“I don’t know whether he did or not. I don’t understand a boat.”
“I know he did! And then he tumbled me into the water at the island.”
“But you pitched into him then; and, as he could stand up better than you could in the boat, he threw you overboard.”
“I shall get even with him; and if I don’t throw him into the lake, it will be because I can’t do it,” blustered the rebel. “I see you are on his side.”