“To set your drowning trap,” replied Zeb, calmly. “I want to see how you do it. You cut it three-quarters through, don’t you?”
“Now, Zeb, ye spalpeen, get out wid yer nonsense,” growled Pat, with a very uneasy expression on his dusty face. “The boord’s all right. Jist shtrip an’ thry it wanst.”
“No, thank you,” said Zeb. “Did you really mean to murder old Gershom? And now you’re going to try it again. I’d never thought that of you, Pat.”
“Go ’long wid yez!” laughed the Irishman. “Yer at the bottom of all the mischief there is. I hope there’ll be young gintlemin from the city, the now, that’ll tache ye manners. It’s waitin’ for thim, I am.”
“Drown ’em, shall you?” said Zeb. “But what’ll Gershom say to that? I’ll have to be down here in my boat all the while.”
“I owe ye one, Zeb Fuller!” exclaimed Pat, with a sudden and very warm burst of grateful recollection. “Ave yer iver in a schrape and want a frind, just come to owld Pat Murphy, that’s all. It was mesilf didn’t want to shpile the fun of yez. That’s all.”
“If we hadn’t been on hand it would have been spoiled pretty badly,” moralized Zeb. “I’m going for a pull in the boat now, myself. Give my love to Gershom when he comes, and tell him he’s a nice boy.”
A queer duck was Zeb Fuller, but, by the time he had floated vaguely up and down the pond two or three times, he had very fairly matured his plans for operating upon Dr. Dryer and preventing the doors of the Academy from being closed against him.
That day was an unusually busy one for Ogleport, in vacation-time, for every gossip in the village had notes to compare with every other, but Zeb Fuller was among the invisible all day, and he retired to rest at an hour which gave his father renewed hopes of the bright future which lay before his heir.
No pains were taken, however, to ascertain whether Zeb’s pillow was constantly occupied through the night-watches, and all the deacon was absolutely sure of was, that he had some difficulty in stirring him up in the morning.