“Do you think so?” sighed the monk.
“Yes; they’re afraid of my telling mother and making her angry. She doesn’t like us to do cruel things: she’d tell us we were like the Danes. They’ll come back soon with the pole, and then if you hold one end we can pull the other and draw you out. But I say, Father Swythe, you’re big and strong. Don’t you think if you were to try, you could get out on to the grass? Try and struggle out before they come back.”
“But if I began to sink—”
“Then I should run and shout to the shepherds to come and pull you out.”
“But I shouldn’t like you to leave me to sink alone, my boy.”
“It would be a long, long time before you were regularly mired,” said the boy. “Now, you try! Give me both hands.”
Father Swythe did as he was told, and, while his young companion threw himself back and dragged, the monk kicked and struggled bravely, and with such good effect that, to the surprise of both, he glided slowly through the reeds, and in less than a minute he sat up panting on the short grass, with the water streaming from the front of his gown.
“That was very brave and nice of you, my boy,” he said, as he rose to his feet, “and I shall never forget it.”
“Oh, it was easy enough!” said Fred, laughing. “There, let’s go over the hill, and when the boys come back they’ll begin poking the pole about down among the reeds, and think we’re both smothered. No: here they come. Look, they’re bringing the pole.”