“I say, Scar.”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t you done some harm, and oughtn’t we to let them know up at the house?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t help it.”
“I thought the passage was partly under the water,” said Fred to himself, “and so it ran in; but it couldn’t have been meant to be wet like that. I say, Scar,” he cried aloud, “whereabouts is the bottom where your feet are?”
“Eh?”
“I say, where are your feet?”
“Where this stick is,” came back more clearly now.
And it suddenly struck Fred that the water was not pouring out in quite so great a volume. But for the moment he could not see the stick for the foam. Directly after, though, he made out where it was being moved to and fro, exactly on a level with the surface of the lake.
“I’m coming back now,” cried Scarlett; and his voice was plainly heard, after which Fred sat watching the water, rapidly draining away with less and less violence, till he heard a shout, answered it, and soon after Scarlett came along, forcing his way through the hazels till he reached the edge of the lake, and, by the help of one of the boughs of the birch, swung himself lightly into the boat, and began looking curiously at the opening, nearly hidden by the growth, through which the water still poured.