“Not going to,” said Will. “Come along.”
Ten minutes later they reached the cottage gate, to find Drinkwater’s sad-looking, patient-faced wife looking anxiously over the hedge.
“How are you, Mrs Waters?” cried Will, cheerily. “We haven’t come for tea this time. We are going to catch some trout—a good creelful—for you to cook.”
“I hope you will, my dears,” said the woman, gently. “Mr Manners was sadly disappointed the other night. He said he thought that you had played him another trick.”
“There, what did I say?” cried Will. “Is he in his room?”
“No, my dears; he’s painting down by the birches, below the cave.”
“All right,” cried Will. “Look here; I’ll take his rod and basket.”
The creel was hanging from a nail beneath the cottage porch, and the rod stood up like a tall reed with its spear stuck in one of the garden beds; and, quite at home, Will took them from their resting-places, swung the creel strap across his back, laid the rod alongside his own over his shoulder, and then walked sharply on along familiar paths, with a booming noise growing louder and louder as they progressed, till at one of the turns of the stream they came full in sight of the great fall where the water was thundering down into the rocky hollow it had carved, and a faint mist of spray rose to moisten the overhanging ferns.
“Big mushroom, Josh!” cried Will, pointing to the great, open umbrella. “What shall we do? Say we are coming with a stone?”
“No, no,” said Josh; “no larks now.”