At last Nic rose, shook himself after the fashion of a dog to get rid of some of the water which soaked his clothes, and looked round about him for his cap, feeling that he would be more dignified and look rather less like a drowned rat if he put it on.
Pete came close to him, placed his lips nearly to his ear, and shouted, “Cap?”
Nic nodded.
“Gone down the river to try and catch mine for me,” said the man, with a good-humoured grin, which made Nic frown at the insolent familiarity with which it was said.
“You’ll have to buy me another one, Master Nic,” continued the man, “and get the smith to make me a noo steel hook. I’ll let you off paying for the pole; I can cut a fresh one somewheres up yonder.”
“On our grounds?” cried Nic indignantly, speaking as loudly as he could.
“Well, there’s plenty, aren’t there, master? And you’ve lost mine,” shouted back the man, grinning again.
“You scoundrel!” cried Nic, who was warming up again. “I shall have you up before the Justices for this.”
“For what?” said the man insolently.
“For throwing me into the pool.”