“I came suddenly on them—him and his brother—birds’-nesting. In his fright he slipped in. I just caught him, but the other ran away, and I could not pull him up. Oh! if you had not come.”
John hid his face in his hands with a murmur of intense thanksgiving.
“You should get home,” he said. “Can you? I’ll see to the boy.”
At this moment the keeper came up full of wrath and consternation, as soon as he understood what had happened. He was barely withheld from shaking the truant violently back to life, and averred that he would teach him to come birds’-nesting in the park on Sunday.
And when, after he had fetched John’s coat and boots, Sydney bade him take the child, now crying and shivering, back to his mother, and tell her to put him to bed and give him something hot he replied—
“Ay, ma’am, I warrant a good warming would do him no harm. Come on, then, you young rascal; you won’t always find a young lady to pull you out, nor a gentleman to swim across that there Avon. Upon my honour, sir, there ain’t many could have done that when it is in flood.”
He would gladly have escorted them home, but as the boy could not yet stand, he was forced to carry him.
“You should walk fast,” said John, as he and Sydney addressed themselves to the ascent of the steep sloping ground above the river.
She assented, but she was a good deal strained, bruised, and spent, and her heavy winter dress, muddied and soaked, clung to her and held her back, and both laboured breathlessly without making much speed.
“I never guessed that a river was so strong,” she said. “It was like a live thing fighting to tear him away.”