The others returned with a pail of water. They were for dumping it in one deluge upon poor Tommy, but Herbert prevented their drowning him.
“That isn’t the way, you nuts! You dribble it on him. Here, give it to me.”
He knelt over Tommy and poured a slow stream of cold water on his face and down his neck. When this had no effect he continued the stream over his body, clad in linen clothes, much as one waters a flower bed. The children held their breath and watched. Signs of returning life were visible. As the cold shower struck the pit of his stomach, one knee hitched. Encouraged, Herbert spilt the last pint in his upturned face. It contorted, he choked, gasped, yelled defiantly:
“Mmmm-bah-what ye doin’?”
Margie Hunter knelt at his head.
“You aren’t dead, are you, Tommy?”
“I’m all wet,” he exclaimed, irritably.
Isabelle still stood on the spot where she had struck the blow. Her face was set and white.
“I guess we better get him in the house now,” Herbert advised.
“What will we tell them?” Margie asked.