For, living as he did in that island of good elevated land in the great wild fen where inhabitants were scarce, everybody was looked upon as an intimate friend, and half the lad’s time was spent at the bottom of the slope beyond the ruinous walls of the old Priory, watching the water to see how much higher it had risen, and to gaze out afar and watch for the coming of boat or punt.
In truth, though, there was only one vessel likely to come, and that was the flat-bottomed punt belonging to Dave, who worked the duck-decoy far out in the fen. The people on the sea-bank had a boat; but they were five miles away at least, and would not venture on such a night.
“What should I do?” thought Dick as he walked down to the edge of the water again and again. “If Tom is drowned, and Dave, and John Warren, they may drain the fen as soon as they like, for the place will not be the same.”
The night wore on; and Mrs Winthorpe made the people in turn partake of a meal, half supper, half breakfast, and, beyond obeying his father’s orders regarding dry clothes, Dick could go no further. He revolted against food, and, feeling heartsick and enraged against the wheelwright for eating a tremendous meal, he once more ran down to the water’s edge, to find his father watching a stick or two he had thrust in.
“Tide has turned, Dick,” he said quietly; “the water will not rise any higher.”
“And will it all run off now, father?”
The squire shook his head.
“Some will,” he replied; “but the fen will be a regular lake till the sea-bank has been mended. It must have been rough and the tide very high to beat that down.”
“Will it come in again, then?” asked Dick.
“Perhaps: perhaps not. It’s a lucky thing that I had no stock down at the corner field by the fish-stews. If they had not been up here in the home close, every head must have been drowned.”