"Heave out that water.

Do you want me to kick you again ?" Bob whimpered, but he worked faster, scooping the water clumsily out and throwing it over, the side, and, after he had done, and been sitting crouched at the bottom, Bigley seemed to attack him again unkindly, as if he were going to take advantage of his helplessness, and serve him out for many an old piece of tyranny.
"Now, then," he shouted--and it seemed to be his father speaking, not our quiet easy-going school-fellow, but the rough seafaring man who had the credit of being a smuggler--"Now then, you, Bob Chowne," he roared, "get up, and come and take Sep Duncan's oar." "I can't," he groaned piteously, and he let himself fall against the side of the boat.

"I'm so cold, I'm half dead." "Oh, are you ?" shouted Bigley.

"No you ar'n't, so get up and creep over here." "I can't," cried Bob again.
"Then I'll make you," cried Bigley fiercely, and lifting his oar out of the rowlocks he sent it along the gunwale, till he made it tap heavily against the back of Bob Chowne's head.
"Oh!" shrieked Bob, and I felt my cheeks burn, cold as I was.
"Now, will you come and work, you sneak ?" "I--I can't." "Get up, or I'll come and heave you overboard," roared Bigley.

"I won't have it." "Oh--oh!" sobbed poor Bob.
"Let him be, Big," I cried.