“I told you not to move, sir,” roared the squire, for he had heard a slight splash on his right.
“I couldn’t help it, father; my foot seemed to slip, and—why, here’s the road!”
“There?” cried the squire eagerly.
“Yes, father, and my foot’s slipped down into a big rut.”
“Are you sure, boy?”
“Sure! Yes, father, it is the road. I say, what does it mean?”
The answer was a quick splashing sound, as Squire Winthorpe hurried to his son’s side and gripped his arm, to stand there for a few moments listening and thinking as he realised the meaning of the strange rushing, plashing noise that came from all round.
“I know,” cried Dick suddenly; “the sea-bank’s broke, and we’re going to have a flood.”
“Yes,” said the squire hoarsely; “the bank has gone, my boy.”
“Hadn’t we better push on, father, before it gets any deeper?”