“He can’t do it.”
“He’s caught.”
“He’ll sink.”
“Not he.”
“But he will.”
“No.”
After striving his hardest to bring the duck back through the thick weeds, Pan suddenly turned and swam to the shoal where the rushes grew. There he landed and stood a moment with the duck’s neck in his mouth: the bird still flapped and struggled.
“Here—here!” shouted Bevis, running along to attract the spaniel to a place where the weeds looked thinner. Mark whistled: Pan plunged in again; and this time, having learned the strength of the weeds, he swam out round them and laid the bird at their feet.
“It’s a beauty.”
“Look at his webbed feet!”