“And that’s no gentle dream,” said Tom, reverting to slang—a thing he seldom did.
“By the way, how long is it going to take us to reach the St Lawrence?” asked Pod.
“Don’t know,” said Chot. “We’ve no way of calculating. In the first place, we don’t know how long we’ll be at the Creighton’s; in the second place, we’re not going to hurry. This is a vacation and we’re going to take things easy—or at least, I am.”
“An easy time and plenty to eat—that’s my motto,” said Fleet, and immediately relapsed into verse:
There was a young fellow from Winton
Whose stomach he never was stintin’;
He’d eat day or night
When dark or when light,
Oh, he was a regular spinton.
“A regular what?” cried Tom, as he stopped paddling for an instant and looked up in surprise.
“A ‘spinton’,” repeated Fleet, with a chuckle.
“What the dickens is that?”
“Don’t you know what a spinton is?” asked Fleet.
“No; never heard of it.”