Now, Bobby Frog, not having as yet been quite reformed, and, perhaps, having imbibed some of the spirit of his celebrated prototype with his name, felt a strong impulse to give Tim a gentle push behind. For Tim sat in an irresistibly tempting position on the bank, with his little boots overhanging the dark pool from which the fish had been dragged.
“Tim,” said Bob.
“Adam, if you please—or call me father, if you prefer it!”
“Well, then, father, since I haven’t got an Abel to kill, I’m only too ’appy to have a Adam to souse.”
Saying which, he gave him a sufficient impulse to send him off!
Eve gave vent to a treble shriek, on beholding her husband struggling in the water, and Cain himself felt somewhat alarmed at what he had done. He quickly extended the butt of his rod to his father, and dragged him safe to land, to poor Eve’s inexpressible relief.
“What d’ee mean by that, Bob?” demanded Tim fiercely, as he sprang towards his companion.
“Cain, if you please—or call me son, if you prefers it,” cried Bob, as he ran out of his friend’s way; “but don’t be waxy, father Adam, with your own darlin’ boy. I couldn’t ’elp it. You’d ha’ done just the same to me if you’d had the chance. Come, shake ’ands on it.”
Tim Lumpy was not the boy to cherish bad feeling. He grinned in a ghastly manner, and shook the extended hand.
“I forgive you, Cain, but please go an’ look for Abel an’ pitch into him w’en next you git into that state o’ mind, for it’s agin common-sense, as well as history, to pitch into your old father so.” Saying which, Tim went off to wring out his dripping garments, after which the fishing was resumed.