Timsy crouched, alert, his hard little hand gripping the net. The fish was a strong one and fought hard for his life; again and again he ran the line out, even when almost at the side of the boat. Norah reeled him in at last, almost done, but still fighting.
“Oh, be careful, and he lepping!” Timsy uttered. “If you take the strain off when he’s hooked slightly he’ll get off on you. Isn’t he the great fighter entirely! Quick, miss, I’ll get him!”
He dived at him with the net. The trout leaped to one side, a wave hiding his flashing golden-brown body; and Timsy, following a thought too far, overbalanced, and shot head first into the water. Wally, casting in the bow, did not see. Norah had a moment’s vision of the slight childish body as the brown water closed over him. He had not uttered a sound.
“Wally, quick—the oars!” she gasped, dropping her rod. The boat was drifting fast before the wind. She watched, knowing that Timsy would be far beyond their reach when he came to the surface. Then the little head appeared for an instant and she sprang into the water.
A year earlier, Wally would have followed without a thought. But training and experience had steadied him; he knew that in the boat he would be far more use than in the rough water, with the wind taking the ‘Walloping Window-Blind,’ their one refuge, swiftly away from them. He flung himself at the oars and steadied her, watching, his heart in his mouth. Norah swam like a fish, he knew; but the water was rough, and Timsy would be a dead weight, even supposing that she had been able to grip him.
Then, to his utter relief, the two heads broke the water together. He heard Norah’s voice: “Hold my shoulder, Timsy—you’re all right. Don’t be scared.”
“I’ll be beside you in a second, Nor,” Wally shouted. “Just keep paddling.” He pulled the clumsy boat frantically up the lough, and let her drop down to Norah, shipping the oars as he reached her. Leaning over, he gripped Timsy firmly.
“Hold on to the kid, and I’ll pull you both to the boat,” he said. “Can you catch it?—I’ve got him.” He waited until Norah’s hand gripped the side. “That’s right—let him go. Come on, Timsy.” He hauled the silent small boy into the boat and turned back to Norah. “Hang on to me, old girl—thank goodness we can’t pull this old tub over.”
There was a struggle, and Norah came over the side, scrambling in with difficulty.
“Is Timsy all right?”