“Maybe,” the Waters answered together, leaping down on the buckets. “We only know that you are very stiff on your bearings. Over, get over!”
The Wheel creaked and groaned. There was certainly greater pressure upon him than he had ever felt, and his revolutions had increased from six and three-quarters to eight and a third per minute. But the uproar between the narrow, weed-hung walls annoyed the Grey Cat.
“Isn’t it almost time,” she said plaintively, “that the person who is paid to understand these things shuts off those vehement drippings with that screw-thing on the top of that box-thing.”
“They’ll be shut off at eight o’clock as usual,” said Rat; “then we can go to dinner.”
“But we shan’t be shut off till ever so late,” said the Waters gaily. “We shall keep it up all night.”
“The ineradicable offensiveness of youth is partially compensated for by its eternal hopefulness,” said the Cat. “Our dam is not, I am glad to say, designed to furnish water for more than four hours at a time. Reserve is Life.”
“Thank goodness!” said the Black Rat. “Then they can return to their native ditches.”
“Ditches!” cried the Waters; “Raven’s Gill Brook is no ditch. It is almost navigable, and we come from there away.” They slid over solid and compact till the Wheel thudded under their weight.
“Raven’s Gill Brook,” said the Rat. “I never heard of Raven’s Gill.”
“We are the waters of Harpenden Brook—down from under Callton Rise. Phew! how the race stinks compared with the heather country.” Another five foot of water flung itself against the Wheel, broke, roared, gurgled, and was gone.