I suppose you're going down the river to lay wait for him and kill him." "There, you're as bad as ever, Master Rayburn," cried the lad, flushing, and looking mortified.

"Last time I saw you it was just the same: laughing at, and bantering, and sneering at me.

No wonder my father gets angry with you, and doesn't ask you to the Tor." "Yes, no wonder.

Quarrels with me, boy, instead of with himself for keeping up such a mad quarrel." "It isn't father's fault, sir," cried the lad quickly.

"It's the old feud that has been going on for generations." "Old feud! Old disgrace!" cried the fisherman, throwing away the worm he was about to impale on his hook, to see it snapped up at once by a good fish; and standing his rod in the water, like a staff to lean on, as he went on talking, with the cold water swirling about over his knees, and threatening to wet his feather-stuffed breeches.