Best of all, Will said, was lying on your breast looking right into the dam, pitching down collected pebbles, which fell with a splashless “chuck!” making “ducks’ eggs,” as they called it, and sending the white Aylesburys scuttling out of the way.
So much for the home of Will of the Mill.
Chapter Two.
Fishing for Fun.
It was up one of the shelves at the side of the great ravine that Will silently hurried his comrade, the Vicar’s son, to where they could look down at the shelf below, a fairly open, verdant space, which offered before it on the other side of the stream just such a rocky landscape full of colour, light and shade, as artists love.
Will held up his hand to ensure silence, and then, taking hold of a projecting oak bough, peered down and signed to Josh to come and look. There was not much to see; there was an easel and a small canvas thereon, an open black japanned paint-box, a large wooden palette blotched with many colours lying on a bed of fern, and whose thumb-hole seemed to comically leer up at the boys like some great eye. Then there was a pair of big, sturdy legs, upon which rested a great felt hat, everything else being covered in by a great opened-out white umbrella, perfectly useless then, for, as Will had said, all was now in the shade.
Both boys had a good look down, drew back and gazed at each other with questioning eyes, before Josh, whose white teeth were all on view, stooped down and made a slight suggestion, a kind of pantomime, that he should drag up a great buckler fern by the roots, and drop it plump on the umbrella spike.
Will’s eyes flashed, and he puckered up his mouth and pouted his lips as if in the act of emitting a great round No.