“Oh, you did, did you? You owns to that?”
“Of course,” replied Penelly scornfully. “What then?”
“What then? Ah! I’ll soon tell you what then,” said Zekle. “You ups with an armful of net, and just as young Harry Paul comes round under you, you drops it on top of his head.”
“Hush!”
Mark Penelly sprang at the speaker and clapped his hand over his lips.
“I thought,” said Zekle, freeing himself, “that it was only for a bit of mischief; I’d forgot all about young Mas’r Harry; but now I know as you did it to drown—”
“Hush!” cried Penelly again hoarsely, and his face was like ashes. “I didn’t; indeed I did not, Zekle.”
“Why, I see you with my own eyes,” said the man.
“Yes, I did drop the net over, but it was only out of mischief. I did not think it would do more than duck him well. I never thought it would be so dangerous. I meant it in fun.”
“But it was dangerous,” said Zekle with a grin; “and as people know you hate Mas’r Harry, they’ll say you meant to mur—”