“Yon’s the school-master, sir;” and then I saw Mr. Wood fling himself over the hedge by the alder thicket (he was rather good at high jumps), and come flying along the bank towards us, when he said,
“What’s the matter?”
I threw my arms round him and sobbed, “He was cutting a double three backwards, and he went in.”
Mr. Wood unclasped my arms and turned to the rest.
“What have you done with him?” he said. “Did he hurt himself?”
If the crowd was cowardly and helpless, it was not indifferent; and I shall never forget the haggard faces that turned by one impulse, where a dozen grimy hands pointed—to the hole.
“He’s drowned dead.” “He’s under t’ ice.” “He went right down,” several men hastened to reply, but most of them only enforced the mute explanation of their pointed finger with, “He’s yonder.”
For yet an instant I don’t think Mr. Wood believed it, and then he seized the man next to him (without looking, for he was blind with rage) and said,
“He’s yonder, and you’re here?”
As it happened, it was the man who had talked with his back to us. He was very big and very heavy, but he reeled when Mr. Wood shook him, like a feather caught by a storm.