“Urrr!” growled Bald, stamping with rage. Then: “Never mind, boys: let them stop together. Give him a Latin lesson, Father Swythe.”
“You stop a moment, all three of you,” cried Alfred sharply. “You’re not going away to leave Father Swythe like this. Go and fetch the big fir-pole that we laid across to begin the dam. If that’s laid down here Father Swythe can pull himself out.”
“Fetch it yourself!” cried Bald angrily. “We’re not your serfs.”
“I’m going to stop with Father Swythe,” cried Alfred.
“Good boy! good boy!” whispered the monk.
“And look here,” cried Alfred angrily: “it’s cruel and wicked not to help him, and if you don’t go I shall tell mother, and father will have you all punished severely.”
“Tell, if you dare!” cried Bald, wringing out some of the water from the front of his tunic-like gown. “Come along, boys, and we’ll get the fish without him.”
Bald started off back to the stream, and the others followed him, the monk watching with piteous eyes till they were out of sight, when he turned his doleful, wrinkled face to his young companion, to tell him what he already knew.
“They’re gone,” he said sadly.
“Yes,” said Alfred, laughing; “but only to fetch the fir-pole.”