At this juncture Master Paul gave chase, and for a few moments Bramble and his friends were too much engaged to speak; but at last, when the chase was over, and further reprisals were out of the question, the hero of the Tadpoles summoned up all his remaining powers to yell:
“Yah boo, Nightingale! Hope you get drowned! Yah!” after which he went his way.
The two friends paddled quietly up the river. They talked very little, but both felt relieved to be away from their books. As they went on their spirits rose, greatly to Paul’s displeasure. That young gentleman, immoderately jealous for the glory of the Fifth, was content as long as the two rowers remained grave and serious; he could then make himself believe they were engaged in mental exercises favourable to Monday’s examination. But as soon as they began to whistle, and chaff him and one another, and talk of their holiday adventures, Paul became displeased, for they could not possibly do this and be inwardly preparing for the examination at the same time.
However, he had to submit as best he could, and gave all his attention to steering them carefully, so that it should be no fault of his, at any rate, if they were prevented from showing up on the critical day.
“This old Shar isn’t half such a jolly river as the Thames, is it, Wray?”
“Rather not!” replied Wraysford, resting on his oar; “and yet it’s pretty enough in parts.”
“Oh, up at the weir?—yes. But I’m out of love with weirs at present. I shudder every time I think of that one up the Thames.”
“It wasn’t pleasant, certainly,” said Wraysford.
“Pleasant! Old man, if you hadn’t been there it would have been a good deal worse than unpleasant. Poor Stee!”
“Pull your left, Greenfield senior, or you’ll be into the bank!” sung out Paul.