A hot and languorous day in August saw the great battle of redskins and palefaces. Nothing in the weather stirred us to mighty deeds. The long afternoon had dragged on to half-past four. For two hours we had roamed the street, the gardens, and back yards. A dulness settled over things. The phœbe-bird who sat on Mr. Hawkins's woodshed reiterated his dismal note, as though the weariness of the dog-days had entered his very soul.
"Phe-e-e—be-e-e-e," he remarked, with that falling inflection on the last syllable that would dampen the spirits of a circus clown.
"Phe-e-e—be-e-e."
Mr. Hawkins himself leaned over his gate and smoked his pipe. An ice-cart came lumbering down the street. That, at least, was interesting. We hurried to meet it, and each possessed himself of a lump of ice. Then we perched, some on my fence and some on the blue box that held the garden hose. We removed the straw and sawdust from the ice, and began to suck it.
Mr. Hawkins, having taken his clay pipe from his mouth, engaged in a conversation with the driver of the ice-cart on the prospects of rain. We watched them languidly. They debated the question at length, until the dripping water from the ice-cart had formed three dark spots in the dusty street.
Peter Bailey said: "Let's go up to Davenport's and see if the raft is there."
Davenport's was a general term used to describe a field, and a pond in that field. The pond was a small affair, with no large amount of water, but a great deal of black mud. It was not without certain tremendous fascinations, however, for we believed that in one place it had no bottom.
Moreover, leeches abounded.
Few, if any of us, had ever seen a leech; but we were aware that if one of them attached himself to the human body, no power under Heaven could drag him off, and he would not stop his infernal work until he had drained away every drop of blood.