“That’s a neat way of putting it, old man!”
“There’s a big bite this time!” said the Hermit.
So there was—three fish on two hooks, and it was some time before the diversion was disposed of.
“It’s a pity every one can’t be made to see he’s his own worst enemy; it would simplify matters awfully. If a youngster got it into his head that it wanted more pluck to go against himself than all the Templeton rules put together, we should get some surprises!”
“No chance of that, I’m afraid, while there are fellows like Pledge, who make it a business to drag youngsters down.”
“You may say so. I should say there’s not a youngster in Templeton in greater peril at this moment than Pledge’s fag, and the worst of it is there is no one to help him.”
Dick suddenly felt his sofa uncomfortable. The boards underneath cramped him; the sun, too, for some reason or other, became too hot, and the breeze fidgeted him; the last sandwich he had eaten had had too much mustard in it; he was getting fagged of fishing.
Although the talk of the two seniors had not been intended for his ears, it had been impossible for him to avoid overhearing it, even if he had tried, which he had not, and the Hermit’s last words had stung him to the quick and spoilt his enjoyment.
“What’s the matter, youngster?” asked Cresswell. “Getting sea-sick?”
“No,” replied Dick, trying to compose himself.