“Oh, come here, quick! A sheep has gone plosh into the pool.”
Boys were as much boys then as they are now, for directly after these words were uttered Alfred—the Little then—came hurrying as fast as the water would let him wade—splash, splash, splash!—from where he and his brothers had been busily making a dam across the little stream to turn the rushing water aside into another channel so as to leave the unfortunate trout helpless and ready for capture, and as soon as he caught sight of his teacher lying perfectly still he burst into a fit of hearty laughter.
“Come and look! Come and look!” he shouted.
His brothers wanted no further telling, but came splashing up out of the stream to the open shallow muddy bed where the reeds grew, and as soon as they saw the monk’s condition they began to indulge in a bare-legged triumphal war-dance, shrieking with laughter the while.
“Bad boys; bad, thoughtless, wicked boys!” grunted Father Swythe; but he lay perfectly still with arms and legs spread apart as far as they would go.
“Why don’t you stand up and walk out?” cried Fred, at last, taking compassion on his tutor’s awkward plight.
“Because I’m so heavy, boy: I should sink.”
“Oh, no. It isn’t deep there. I’ve often waded about there to look for moorhens’ nests.”
“Yes, my boy; but you’re young and light. I’m very heavy.”
“Yes,” cried one of the others, in high delight; “there’s an arrow depth of water where you are, and quite a bow length of thick mud under that.”