“What rot are you playing at now?” he demanded sternly. Harold flushed up, but stuck to his pig-trough like a man. “I'm Jason,” he replied, defiantly; “and this is the Argo. The other fellows are here too, only you can't see them; and we're just going through the Hellespont, so don't you come bothering.” And once more he plied the wine-dark sea. Edward kicked the pig-trough contemptuously. “Pretty sort of Argo you've got!” said he. Harold began to get annoyed. “I can't help it,” he replied. “It's the best sort of Argo I can manage, and it's all right if you only pretend enough; but YOU never could pretend one bit.” Edward reflected. “Look here,” he said presently; “why shouldn't we get hold of Farmer Larkin's boat, and go right away up the river in a real Argo, and look for Medea, and the Golden Fleece, and everything? And I'll tell you what, I don't mind your being Jason, as you thought of it first.” Harold tumbled out of the trough in the excess of his emotion. “But we aren't allowed to go on the water by ourselves,” he cried. “No,” said Edward, with fine scorn: “we aren't allowed; and Jason wasn't allowed either, I daresay--but he WENT!” Harold's protest had been merely conventional: he only wanted to be convinced by sound argument. The next question was, How about the girls? Selina was distinctly handy in a boat: the difficulty about her was, that if she disapproved of the expedition--and, morally considered, it was not exactly a Pilgrim's Progress--she might go and tell; she having just reached that disagreeable age when one begins to develop a conscience. Charlotte, for her part, had a habit of day-dreams, and was as likely as not to fall overboard in one of her rapt musings. To be sure, she would dissolve in tears when she found herself left out; but even that was better than a watery tomb. In fine, the public voice--and rightly, perhaps--was against the admission of the skirted animal: spite the precedent of Atalanta, who was one of the original crew. “And now,” said Edward, “who's to ask Farmer Larkin? I can't; last time I saw him he said when he caught me again he'd smack my head. YOU'LL have to.” I hesitated, for good reasons. “You know those precious calves of his?” I began. Edward understood at once. “All right,” he said; “then we won't ask him at all. It doesn't much matter. He'd only be annoyed, and that would be a pity. Now let's set off.”