Swift delight leaped to the small boy’s eyes.
“Is it me? Sure, wouldn’t I be in your way, miss?”
“Why, you’ll be very useful,” said Norah. “You’d to come?”
“Like!” said Timsy. Words failed him, and he could only beam at them speechlessly. As they disappeared into the house they heard suppressed yelps of joy, and presently, from the front windows, beheld Timsy energetically turning handsprings on the path, in the effort to relieve his overcharged feelings.
They took the track across the bog leading to Lough Nacurra, skirted it, following a sheep-path along the shore, and mounted a rise. Below them lay the little lough they sought, a jewel in a setting of gently-rolling hills. In one corner a number of queer, gnarled objects showed above the surface of the water.
“What are those, Timsy?” Wally asked.
“They’s ould limbs of trees, sir; the lough does be low, and them ould things sticks out. Me daddy says there was a mighty big forest here, one time: there’s bog-wood everywhere in this part. There’s a small little landing-stage near them, where the boat is.”
They plunged down hill. Arrived at the boat, Wally whistled long and low.
“It must be a boat, I suppose,” he said, doubtfully. “Timsy said it was, and he ought to know. But—Did you ever see anything quite like it, Nor?”
“I did not,” Norah said.