“Stop a moment, Dick,” said the squire, “and let me try to think. Home’s safe, because the Priory’s on the Toft; but there’s Tallington and his wife and boy. We must try and help them.”
“Come on, then, father!” cried Dick excitedly.
“No, Dick, that will not do; we shall only be shutting ourselves up too and frightening your mother to death. We must get home and then on to Hickathrift’s. He has a big punt there.”
“Yes, father, but it hasn’t been mended. I saw it this afternoon.”
“Then he has wood, and we must make a raft. Come on. Here: your hand.”
For a few minutes there was nothing heard but the rushing of the wind and the splash, splash of the water, as they pressed on, the squire cautiously trying to keep one foot by the rut which had guided his son, and, when it became intangible, seeking for some other means to keep them from straying from the submerged road in the darkness, and going off to right or left into the bog.
It was a terrible walk, for they had a full mile to go; and to the squire’s horror, he found that it was not only against the wind but also against the sharply running water, which was flowing in from the sea and growing deeper inch by inch.
As if to comfort each other father and son kept on making cheery remarks apropos of their rough journey. Now it was Dick, who declared that the water felt warmer than the air; now it was the squire, who laughingly said that he should believe now in blind men being able to find their way by the touch.
“For I’m feeling my way along here famously, Dick.”
“Yes, father, only it seems such a long way—ugh!”