They were the actions of men who led a solitary life among the birds and four-footed animals of the great wild fen, and to be made the heroes of an escape seemed to be irksome.
Just then there was a diversion which took off people’s attention, and seemed to place them more at ease. A sharp quick yelp came from the boat, followed by a bark, and, plainly seen in the fire-light, a couple of dogs placed their paws on the edge of the little vessel, raised their heads to the full stretch of their necks, and with cocked-up ears seemed to ask, “What’s to be done with us?”
“Hi! Chip, Chip! Snig, Snig! Come, boys,” shouted Dick, patting his leg; and the dogs barked loudly, but did not stir.
“Come on, you cowards!” cried Dick. “You won’t get any wetter than I did.”
“Here!” said Dave; and Chip leaped over and swam ashore, gave himself a shake, and then performed a joy dance about Dick’s legs.
This time there was a dismal howl from the punt, where the second dog was waiting for permission to land.
“Come on!” said the second man, a frowning, thoughtful-looking fellow of about fifty, the lower part of whose face was hidden by a thick beard—a great rarity a hundred years ago—and the other dog leaped into the water with a tremendous splash, swam ashore, rushed at Chip, and there was a general worry, half angry, half playful, for a few moments before the pair settled down close to the fire, as if enjoying its warmth.
“This is a terrible misfortune, Dave,” said the squire.
“Ay; the water’s out, mester,” said the man in a low husky way.
“How did you escape?”