I could not trust myself to say much. I climbed into the boat and made to push off.
"A good grand-dad," I exclaimed bitterly; "good mule, you mean.
"Rita,—I know what would cure him."
"No!—you don't, George,—for you don't know grand-dad."
"Yes!—I know what would cure him, Rita."
"What?"
"A rope-end, well applied." And I pushed off.
She ran into the water up to her knees and caught hold of the stern of my boat.
"You ain't mad with me, George," she cried anxiously.
"No, no! Rita. Poor little woman,—why should I be?"