“Oh, never mind him,” cried Tom; “is old Dave coming over to fetch us? Why, Dick, look!”
“I can’t see anything,” said Dick.
“Because you’re not looking the right way. There! Now he’s behind that bed of reeds a mile away.”
“I see!” cried Dick. “Why, it is Dave, and he’s coming.”
The lads ran down to the edge of the fen, and made their way to the end of a long, open, river-like stretch of water, which was now perfectly clear, so that everything could be clearly distinguished at the bottom; and before long, as they walked to and fro, they caught sight of a little shoal of small fish, and soon after of a young pike, with his protruding lower jaw, waiting for his opportunity to make a dash at some unfortunate rudd, whose orange fins and faintly-gilded sides made him a delectable-looking morsel for his olive-green and gold excellency the tyrant of the river.
“He’s coming here, isn’t he?” said Tom, gazing out anxiously over the reedy waste.
“Yes; I can see his old fox-skin cap. He’s coming safe enough.”
“Oh, Dick!” cried his companion.
“Well! What?”
“The powder. You’ve never given him the powder, and he’ll be as gruff as can be. Has he had the horn?”