“Sure, sor, I’m not afraid a bit!” yelled Dinny.
“Then come over.”
“If I did, sor, the crockydiles would be aiting me, and thin what would you do?”
“Let me fetch him, father,” cried Jack. “I’ll wade over.”
“No, let me,” said Dick. “I’m not afraid.”
“I don’t think a second wetting will do either of you any good,” replied their father. “Here, Dick, take the bay and go across, and make the stupid fellow hold on by your stirrup-leather. Take care to go straight.”
“Help. What’ll I do now? Are ye going to lave me?” cried Dinny, in piteous tones.
“He really deserves to be left,” said Mr Rogers. “We shall have to cure him of this cowardice. Go on, Dick.”
Dick leaped into the saddle, touched the willing bay’s sides, and the horse began to ford the rapid stream, hesitating just a trifle as they reached the middle, where the current pressed most hardly against his flanks; but keeping steadily on till he was safe across.
“Ah, Masther Dick, dear!” whined Dinny. “An’ it’s you, thin?”