“I am, miss,” said a small voice, between chattering teeth.
Wally flung off his coat, and wrapped it round the child.
“Poor old chap—that will keep the wind off you a bit,” he said. “Norah, get hold of the oars and pull in—you’ll be nearly as quick as I would be, and it will keep you warmer. My Aunt! that kid hung on to the landing-net all the time! Well, you are a good sort, Timsy!”
“I dunno why would I let it go,” shivered Timsy. “Bad enough for me to be such an omadhaun, to be falling in—and herself going after me! Me mother’ll be fit to tear the face off me!”
“She’ll be too glad to see you alive,” said Wally, reassuringly. “We’ll——”
Timsy interrupted him with a cry. He caught Norah’s neglected rod.
“Howly Mother, but the fish is in it yet!” he shouted. “Oh, will ye come, please, sir!”
They landed the trout between them, Timsy recovering some measure of his self-respect by being allowed to use the net.
“He had it nearly swallowed—if he hadn’t, he’d have been gone this long time,” he chattered, watching Wally disengage the hook. “Isn’t it the grand luck we’re in! and he the beautifullest trout! Oh, why would I want to be falling in, and the fish rising!” He looked wistfully at Norah. “Tis all wet ye are, and the day spoilt on ye,” he said, sadly. “You won’t never take me out again, Miss Norah.”
“Won’t we just!” said Norah, smiling at him through a tangle of wet hair. “We don’t get out of friends because of a trifle like that, Timsy.” She brought the “Walloping Window-Blind” floundering against the shore. “There! it would warm an iceberg to pull that old tub. Come along, Timsy, and I’ll race you home.”