“What’s the matter, now?” cried Fred, wonderingly.
“Oh, you can tell ’em when you like, sir,” cried Samson. “Haw, haw, haw! No, no, no; you won’t get me to believe that. But let’s get on, sir; we’re ’bout out o’ sight of the sentries. No; there’s one looking at us over the hill. Let’s sit down just yonder, and seem to begin.”
A glance casually taken showed the wisdom of this proceeding, and one chose a spot by a tree, the other went twenty yards further toward the wood, and they began to go through the motions of people fishing, changing their places from time to time, Samson passing right on beyond Fred, and the latter after a few minutes going on past Samson, till they were well in among the trees, and not far from the steep rocky bank where the passage came down to the lake.
For the first time since the discovery, Fred went on without recalling that day when they drained the place, for he was too eager to go in search of Nat, who must be, he felt sure, lying somewhere in the wood, weak and suffering, and praying for their help.
“Now,” said Samson, at last, “let’s carry our rods a little way in and hide ’em with the basket, ready for us when we’ve done. I may pitch the pot o’ worms away now, sir, mayn’t I?”
“No, no; put them with the basket. There, in that bush—that’s the place.”
The rods were thrust in amongst the thick undergrowth, and then Fred took a final look round, seeing nothing, and then leading the way, easily enough now by day, for the displaced twigs showed to their practised eyes where they had passed before.
But even now it was no easy task to achieve before they came to the fallen oak, with its two mighty trunks, the one living, the other dead.
Then they stopped—startled; for there was a loud rustling, the leaves and twigs were forced apart, and for the moment they felt that they were discovered.
“Only a rabbit,” said Samson, coolly, as the sound died away. “What a noise them little chaps can make, Master Fred! Go along.”