“L-l-look out, mister. You’re goin’ to s-s-step into a hole.”
The man stopped, looked up, took another step, and sort of stumbled. Then he recovered his balance and waded to shore, but his landing-net had got loose from his belt and was floating down without his noticing it.
“You’ve lost your net,” Tallow yelled.
The old gentleman started after it, but the water got deeper and the current dragged at him pretty strong. He was going to keep on, though, until Mark called to him again.
“It’ll lodge right there in the b-b-brush-heap,” he says.
We all scrambled down the bank to where the old gentleman was. He smiled at us pleasant-like, and said: “Much obliged, boys. I’d have got a good ducking if it hadn’t been for you, and a ducking is no joke at my age.”
“There,” says Mark, “your net’s c-c-caught. Go get it, Binney.”
I scrambled around the shore to the brush-pile and crawled out to where the net was. It was easy to get.
“Camping around here?” asked the old gentleman. I guess he was close to seventy, because his hair and mustache were white as could be. He was a nice-looking old gentleman, with blue eyes that looked like they were twinkling at you, and a big nose. Not a homely nose, but a big one that looked as though he amounted to something.
“We’re staying with my uncle Hieronymous,” I told him.