Chapter Thirty Five.
In a few minutes Pete stopped at the edge of a hollow, where, half covered by sedge rushes and bog plantain, there lay a good-sized pool of clear water, down to which Tom made his way, followed by his companion, and after taking a hearty draught, which was wonderfully clear and refreshing, he began to bathe his cuts and bruises, and rid himself of the half-dried blood.
While Tom bathed his face and hands, Pete stood looking on, till suddenly the former raised his head.
“Hulloo! Why don’t you have a wash?” he said sharply.
Pete made no reply, but stepped down to the water’s edge, went upon his knees, and began to bathe his face.
While he was busy Tom rose, and made the best use he could of his pocket-handkerchief by way of a towel, and when he was pretty well dry he went along to where the water lay calm and still in a corner of the pool. Here, by approaching cautiously, he was able to lie down upon his chest, and gaze into what formed as good a looking-glass as was ever owned by his savage ancestors.
The sight the boy saw was startling.
“Oh dear!” he half groaned; “what will Mrs Fidler say—and uncle?”
He stood up thinking for a few minutes, watching Pete, who kept on dipping his hands into the cool water, and holding them full up to his burning face; and as Tom looked, and thought that there was no one to call the rough lad to account, he appeared to be seeing everything about him with wonderful clearness—there were the long shadows of the pines cast across the pool with streaks of golden sunshine, in which the silver water buttercups, with their two kinds of leaves, lay thick above and below the surface; along by the edge were the branched bur-reeds, with their round spiked stars of seed-vessels; close by the pinky flowering rush was growing, and in the shallows the water soldier thrust up stiffly its many heads. And all the time splash—splash—splash—there was the faint sound of the water as Pete scooped it up, and bathed his battered face.