He hurried out of the cottage, and into a lane. “Keep listening,” he said. “If you hear any one, we’ll go across the fields.”
“There’s some one coming now,” I said.
“Oh dear! it’s old Rebble. He hasn’t seen us. This way.”
He stooped down, and ran to a gate, crept through, and then, leading the way, he walked fast along by the side of a hedge till we had crossed one field, and then began to trot, seeming to get stronger every minute, while I followed, with my wet trousers clinging to my legs, and the water going “suck suck” in my boots.
We crossed two or three fields, and then Mercer drew up, panting, and with the natural colour coming back into his face.
“We’ll walk now,” he said, “and go right round, and slip in through the garden. Perhaps we can get in and up to our room without being seen.”
“Yes, do,” I said, looking dolefully at my wet legs, and my jacket all covered with green from the penstock. “Feel better now?”
“Yes, I’m getting all right. I say, didn’t I seem like a horrid coward?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “It was enough to frighten anybody.”
Mercer was silent for a few minutes. Then he began again.