“No; he swims like a water-rat,” said the doctor.
“No, no,” shouted Dexter, beginning to splash the water, and sheering off as he saw Dan’l about to make a dab at him with the rake.
There was more zeal than discretion in the gardener’s use of this implement, for it splashed down into the water heavily, the teeth nearly catching the boy’s head.
“Here, catch hold of this,” cried Peter Cribb.
“No, no; let me be,” cried Dexter, declining the offer of the clothes-prop, as he had avoided it before when he was on the top of the wall. “I can swim ashore if you’ll let me be.”
This was so self-evident that the doctor checked Dan’l as he was about to make another skull-fracturing dash with the rake; and the next minute Dexter’s hand clutched the grass on the bank, and he crawled out, with the water streaming down out of his clothes, and his short hair gummed, as it were, to his head.
“Here!” he cried; “where’s my fish?”
“Fish, sir!” cried the doctor; “you ought to be very thankful that you’ve saved your life.”
“O Dexter!” cried Helen.
“I say, don’t touch me,” cried the boy, as she caught at his hand. “I’m so jolly wet.”