“Hit ’m!” he shouted, triumphantly, flicked the line out of the water, sprang to the handle of the windlass, and commenced to work the punt with all speed to the opposite side.
He was about midway across when the wheels of a milk-cart, en route to the creamery with full cans, grated down the edge, to an accompaniment of complaining brake echoes.
A red-headed boy, with a heavy cartwhip in his hand, was standing up in front throwing as much style into the driving as he knew.
“Ere!” he shouted, indignantly, “where y’ goin’ with that punt?”
Tom heard the hail, and looked back over his shoulder.
“Hold on a minute, can’t yer,” he howled. “I just peppered a coot; I’m goin’ acrost for him.”
The red-headed boy was interested immediately.
“Where is ’e, Tom?” he cried. “I can’t see ’im.”
“Can’t y’ see ’im kickin’?” shouted Tom, working vigorously at the handle; “’e’s in the lilies over ’ere.”
“Which side?” demanded the red-headed boy, excitedly. “Which side of the punt is he on?”