He started in the wrong direction, but chance befriended him. Climbing upon a clump of moss, he opened out the circuit of the pond. The furze-bush stood on the far side of it. Its lower branches jutted from the bank, and, arching downwards, trailed into the water. From the first dip of them spread dancing waves.
The French Frog still was singing, and each note, caught and re-echoed overhead, crept down the boughs and rippled to the shore.
So far so good. His goal was plainly visible. But how to get there? He made a bee-line for the water's edge, and tumbled down the bank.
His first idea, to swim, was soon abandoned.
With no clear mark by which to set his course he might swim on till nightfall. But if he crept along close to the water? This seemed a certainty, so off he started.
It was uneven going. Sometimes a stretch of sticky mud, sometimes the mazy reed-stems, and sometimes, where the bank was hollowed out, deep water.
The Natterjack was nimble on his feet, and scuttling, crawling, swimming, made good progress. Before he paused, the furze-bush rose above him. Once in the shade of this, he moved discreetly. He slid from stone to stone, and at each stone he rose to reconnoitre. At the fifth stone, a bulky slanting one, he sighted the French Frog. The French Frog sat absorbed in his own harmonies, his mouthpiece taut, to right and left of it two filmy bubble spheres, now swelling now collapsing.
"brek-ek-ek-ek-ek-ek-ek-ek-EX!"
"KO-ax! KO-ax! KO-ax!"