“I’m all right, but I’m awfully cold. I think I’d better move.”
“Let’s help you up,” Barry said. He hauled her ungently to her feet, and she promptly staggered and caught at his shoulder. In a moment her head steadied.
“Now I’m better,” she said. “I’ll just walk home slowly.” She turned, but stopped as he moved towards the creek. “What are you going to do?”
“Just get your spinner,” he said, carelessly. “You go on—I’ll catch you up with the rods.”
“You aren’t going back into that beastly creek!”
“I’m not going to waste your tackle,” he said, laughing. “Don’t worry—I’ll look out for snags.” He swam across carefully, keeping his body almost on the surface, and freed the spinner from the clutches of the bush. In a moment he was back on the bank beside her.
“I say—do go on!” he protested. “I’ve got to get my boots on, and you’ll certainly get pneumonia or something if you stand there with your teeth chattering.”
She stared at him without speaking for an instant. Then she turned and walked unsteadily away, while Barry forced his wet feet into his boots and gathered up the rods and fish. He caught her up in the next paddock.
“Feel all right?”
“Oh, yes—right enough. Just a bit shaky, but nothing to matter.”