“Pish! It was an accident. I am afraid—”
“So am I,” said Poole, taking him up sharply; “horribly.”
“I mean, that we have got on the wrong road.”
“I thought so; but we can’t be. There is only this one, if you call it a road, leading straight down to the river—no, not straight; circumbendibus-y.”
“No,” said Fitz, “it must have branched off, or we should have been at the river long enough ago.”
“No, we have come too slowly.”
“Where is the river, then?” said Fitz.
Plash! Quenk!
At that moment some kind of waterfowl rose from its lair with a good deal of fluttering of its wings, and a plaintive cry of alarm.
“Ah!” sighed Fitz, with a deep expiration of his breath. “At last!”