"Well, certainly the sailors are the roughest lot I know. Still, that would not have hurt you. You are rather dainty, Sir Felix!"
"My daintiness does not hurt you."
"Can't I speak?" (sharply)
"Please yourself."
A silence. A cuckoo sang in the forest, and was answered from a tree within the distant palisade. Felix chopped away slowly and deliberately; he was not a good workman. Oliver watched his progress with contempt; he could have put it into shape in half the time. Felix could draw, and design; he could invent, but he was not a practical workman, to give speedy and accurate effect to his ideas.
"My opinion is," said Oliver, "that that canoe will not float upright. It's one-sided."
Felix, usually so self-controlled, could not refrain from casting his chisel down angrily. But he picked it up again, and said nothing. This silence had more influence upon Oliver, whose nature was very generous, than the bitterest retort. He sat up on the sward.
"I will help launch it," he said. "We could manage it between us, if you don't want a lot of the fellows down here."
"Thank you. I should like that best."
"And I will help you with the cart when you start."