“Do you think the fish-ponds are covered, father?”
“Five or six feet deep, my boy.”
“Then the fish will get out.”
“Very likely Dick; but we’ve something more important to think about than fish. Hark! what’s that?” and he listened.
“Ahoy!” roared Hickathrift from just behind them. “Hear that, squire?”
“Yes, my lad, I heard a cry from off the water.”
Just then came another faint hail from a distance.
“That’s Dave,” said Hickathrift, smiling all over his broad face; “any one could tell his hail: it’s something between a wild-goose cry and the squeak of a cart-wheel that wants some grease.”
The hailing brought out everybody from the house, Mrs Winthorpe’s first inquiry being whether it was the Tallingtons.
“Pitch on a bit more straw, Dick,” cried the squire; and the lad seized a fork and tossed a quantity on the fire, while the wheelwright stirred up the embers with a pole, the result being that the flames roared up tremendously, sending out a golden shower of sparks which were swept away before the wind, fortunately in the opposite direction to the house, towards which the squire darted one uneasy glance.