“Ay, I’m going to, mester,” said Dave coolly. “Theer we are,” he continued, as he sent the end of the punt back to where poor Tom’s legs went on performing a series of kicks which were sometimes like those made by a swimming frog, and at others as if he were trying to walk upside down along an imaginary flight of aerial stairs.
The time seemed long, but probably it was not half a minute from the time Tom dived into the bog till the young engineer seized him by the legs and dragged him into the boat, to sit upon the bottom, gasping, spitting, and rubbing the ooze from his eyes. But it was a good two minutes before he was sufficiently recovered to look round angrily, and in a highly-pitched quavering voice exclaimed:
“Look here: who was it did that?”
“Nobody,” roared Dick. “Oh, I say, Tom, what a game! Are your feet wet?”
Tom turned upon him savagely, but everyone in the boat was laughing, and his countenance relaxed, and he rose up and leaned over the side of the boat to wash his face, which a splash or two relieved from the pieces of bog and dead vegetation which adhered.
“I don’t mind,” he said. “Only you wouldn’t have found it a game if you’d been there.”
“Let’s get back quickly,” said Mr Marston, “or the boy will catch cold.”
“Oh, it won’t hurt me!” cried Tom. “Let’s catch the fish first. They never get cold.”
“Yes: let’s haul the net out first,” said Dick. “Tom won’t mind a ducking.”
“Ay, we’re going to hev out the net,” said Dave. “Splash away, my lad. That’ll keep away the cold.”