Hickathrift took his coat from behind the door, led the way to the place where his punt was floating, fastened to an old willow-stump; and as soon as his visitors were aboard he began to unfasten the rope.
“Like to tak’ a goon, sir, or a fishing-pole?”
“No: I think we’ll be content with what we can see to-night.”
Hickathrift nodded, and Dick thought the engineer very stupid, for a gun had a peculiar fascination for him; but he said nothing, only seated himself, and trailed his hand in the dark water as the lusty wheelwright sent the punt surging along.
“Why, Hickathrift,” cried Mr Marston, “I thought our friend Dave a wonder at managing a punt; but you beat him. What muscles you have!”
“Muscles, mester? Ay, they be tidy; but I’m nowt to Dave. I can shove stronger, but he’d ding (beat) me at it. He’s cunning like. Always at it, you see. Straänge and badly though.”
“What, Dave is?” cried Dick.
“Ay, lad; he’s got the shakes, same as John Warren. They two lay out together one night after a couple o’ wild swans they seen, and it give ’em both ager.”
It was a glorious evening, without a breath of air stirring, and the broad mere glistened and glowed with the wonderful reflection from the sky. The great patches of reeds waved, and every now and then the weird cry of the moor-hen came over the water. Here and there perfect clouds of gnats were dancing with their peculiar flight; swallows were still busy darting about, and now and then a leather-winged bat fluttered over them seeking its insect food.
“What a lovely place this looks in a summer evening!” said Mr Marston thoughtfully.