“All right, I’ll come; but in a few days, you know, I shall be quite all right again.”
“Hooray!” cried Will. “But I was forgetting: father sent me up here with his compliments, and he hopes you are going on A1.”
“So did mine,” said Josh.
“I am very grateful to Mr Willows and Mr Carlile,” said the artist. “Very kind of them to have thought of me.”
Mr Manners’ prophecy was quite right. In a few days practically all trace of his unfortunate mishap on the Tor had vanished, and there followed not merely one fishing trip, but several, for the artist’s chief recreation was throwing a fly, and one evening as he whipped the stream he turned quickly to the boys, who were a few yards away.
“See that?” he said.
“No,” said Will. “Was it a bite?”
“No, no,—amidst those trees,—Drinkwater.”
“Oh,” said Josh. “What about him?”
“I thought he wanted to speak to me,” said the artist. “It looked as though he crept away because he saw you.”