He could hardly help bullying, but he refrained as soon as he thought what he was doing; and half an hour later he embarked in the flatboat with his victim.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE BRILLIANT STRATEGY OF THE BRUISER.
That cunning Tom Topover was actually behaving himself in something like a civilized manner, in his desire not to alarm his victim. Just now he was engaged in a strategetic enterprise, and found it necessary to display only the fur side of his nature, though even that was very like the bristles of a pig. He did his best, which was not saying much, to keep on the right side of his intended victim. But Paul was a good-natured fellow, and it was an easy matter to conciliate him.
The son of toil rowed down the river, and crossing the shoal water of Field's Bay, took a straight course for his destination. Tom sat at the stern, and did not seem to be as much inclined to talk as he had been immediately after the wreck of the queer craft. In fact, he was turning over in his mind sundry cunning propositions, to accomplish the purpose for which he had embarked in the present venture.
It was a good six-mile pull to Westport, but Paul was used to the Dragon, and she went ahead without much effort on his part. The lake was as smooth as glass, and the rower wondered that it could ever be as rough as it had been the day the Silver Moon was so nearly wrecked. Though he was as tough as an oak knot, and had not yet become tired, he thought it was about time for the stranger in the stern to begin to do his share of the pulling, for the boat was now about half way to Westport. Sandy Point was half a mile ahead, and Paul mentioned the fact as a hint that his companion had better take the oars.
"They say you used to live there, Bristol Brick," said Tom in reply, and without taking the hint, which was altogether too indefinite for one with a skin so thick and dirty as the bruiser had.
"I lived there two years," replied Paul indifferently.