“Come along, now,” said Philip, “it’s no use.”
“One more try, and a good one,” said Harry; and then they began again. “Now,” he continued, “both together. One: that was a good one. Two: better still. Three: and a—”
“Snap.”
Just as they gave the last spring, there was a sharp crack from the plank; a shriek from all the boys simultaneously; and Harry and Philip were struggling in the deep water, for the plank bridge had divided in two just in the centre.
Fred ran to the edge, and, by kneeling down, managed to catch Philip’s hand, which was the only portion of him visible, as he was being swept out of the broad ditch, which was running swiftly, into the river, for fear and excitement had robbed him of his swimming powers; while Harry, who could swim well, had given two or three strokes, and then, catching the long grass, climbed out upon the opposite side. The next thing they all did was to stand and stare at each other in blank amazement, from which Harry was the first to recover, for he jumped about, shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and then said bluntly:—
“Don’t you cry, Phil, we’re quite wet enough. Never mind; Papa won’t be very cross if we go and tell him directly. I’m coming across now,” and in spite of the protestations of Philip and Fred, he got sloth fashion—hanging hands and legs—upon the pole that had served as a hand rail to the broken plank, and which maintained its own bearings, and in spite of its bending beneath his weight, he shuffled across, and stood wet and dripping beside his companions.
“Come on,” said Harry, shaking himself again, and addressing the others, who were still standing with long faces by the broken bridge: “let’s run; we shall soon be home, and nobody will meet us in Park Lane.”
“But where’s the basket?” exclaimed Fred.
“Oh!” cried Harry, aghast.
“Why, it’s gone,” said Fred, “and the fish can’t get out, though they are in the water.”