He flung his tiredness off him, and started running jauntily.
He had not far to go. Two scurries brought him to the stone, two scrambles to its summit.
There was the Shrew-mouse just below.
She was too occupied to note his coming. She coursed along the water's edge, her head dropped low, her face almost submerged. At times she paused and sniffed the air, her nose upturned and crinkly, her bristles fan-shape. Then she would drop her head again and probe the water.
The Natterjack watched quietly for a while, but soon impatience mastered him. He crept down and addressed her timidly.
"You said you might find the French Frog," he began.
"I have found him," said the Shrew-mouse; "he's down there—as usual."
"Down where?" said the Natterjack.
"Down in the water," said the Shrew-mouse, "down at the bottom of this pool, a good foot down."
"Would you mind asking him to come up?" said the Natterjack.