They had a good day's sport, and when it fell dusk were returning home, Jemmy beside Lord Wharncliffe, whom he engaged in conversation, and Captain Bolton, with his gun over his shoulder, immediately behind, joining in the conversation at intervals. Jemmy led the way direct to one of these bog-holes, and on reaching the patch of moss adroitly slipped on one side, and let Lord Wharncliffe and Captain Bolton walk straight into it. The moss at once yielded, and both sank to their breasts, and only kept their heads above water by spreading out their arms on the moss. In this condition they were perfectly helpless. To struggle was to endanger their lives, for if the web of moss were torn, they must infallibly sink beneath it.
Jemmy looked at them from the firm ground with a malicious grin.
"Ha, ha! captain," said he, laughing; "art thou saying thy prayers in yond wash-tub?"
"Go to the devil!" roared Captain Bolton.
"Nay," answered Jemmy, "thou'rt going to him as fast as thou can, unless I pull thee out."
He held out his gun to Lord Wharncliffe, and assisted him from the hole. "There, my lord, now you have tit for tat."
"Well, Mr. Hirst, I shall take care how I play with edged tools again. But I think it is too bad of you to punish Captain Bolton as well as me."
"Why, my lord, he seemed to enjoy the horse-pond so much that I thowt I'd let him taste the bog-pit. I've no doubt it gives him a deal o' pleasure."
"You old scarecrow!" said the captain, angrily. "I've a great mind to shoot you."
As he was helping Captain Bolton out with his gun he said drily, "Sure it's a rare funny sight to see a queer sole angling for a flat fish."