Trifles act as large levers sometimes. In this case for one, a few drops of water from the dripping pole made the bottom of the punt slippery; and as Dick leaned over the side his foot gave way, the weight of the bucket overbalanced him, and he had to seize the side of the punt to save himself. This he did, but as he leaned over, nearly touching the water, it was to gaze at the bucket descending rapidly, and the fish escaping, for he had let go.
“What a nuisance!” he cried, as he saw the great vessel seem to turn of a deeper golden hue as it descended and then disappeared, becoming invisible in the dark water, while the punt drifted away before he could take up the pole to thrust it back.
There was nothing to guide him, and the poling was difficult, for the water was here very deep, and though he tried several times to find the spot where the bucket had gone down, it was without success.
“Why, if I did find it,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t be able to get it up without a hook.”
This ended the prospect of fishing, and as he stood there idly dipping down the pole he hesitated as to what he should do, ending by beginning to go vigorously in the direction of Dave Gittan’s newly-built-up hut.
“I’ll make him take me out shooting,” he said; “and we’ll go all over that rough part of the fen.”
There were very few traces of the past winter’s fire visible at Dave’s home as Dick approached, ran his punt on to the soft bog-moss, and landed, securing his rope to a tree, and there were no signs of Dave.
He shouted, but there was no reply, and it seemed evident that the dog was away as well.
A walk across to Dave’s own special landing-place put it beyond doubt, for the boat was absent.
“What a bother!” muttered Dick, walking back toward the hut, a stronger and better place than the one which had been burned. “Perhaps he has gone to see John Warren!”