“You can’t be,” said Will. “You must be sore all under, for you were at the bottom.”
“Oh, but I can’t, Will. I feel as if I was tired out.”
“All right,” cried Will, “I’ll go;” and, springing up, he scampered down to the level where the easel and canvas still stood, and climbed up as the others followed more slowly; and a few minutes later the umbrella came parachute-like down, to be folded up by its owner. Will shouldered the easel, Josh tucked the canvas under his arm, and they all walked up-stream together as if nothing had happened, towards Drinkwater’s attractive little cottage, which formed the temporary home of the lover of rustic art, and discoursing the while about the red-spotted beauties whose haunts Will was to point out that evening after tea.
The cottage with its pretty garden was reached, and the boys handed their loads to the owner.
“What time will you be here?” he said.
“We ought to start at five,” replied Will, “but we can’t get here till nearly six, because Josh is going to have tea with me.”
“Look here, both of you come up and have tea with me. Mrs Drinkwater shall put two extra cups.”
“Mean it?” cried Will.
“Mean it?” said the bluff artist. “Why, of course!”
The next minute the boys were walking down together towards the mill.