"Old man," said Gage, "this is grand. We're in luck for an audience. Now, over you topple; only, do it artistically, or you will have your dip for nothing."
Peckover threw a distasteful glance at the weed-grown water, and then his eye roved from the haggling fanner and butcher to the chattering pair of villagers. "Almost too much of an audience," he objected, with a view to postponing his immersion as long as possible.
"Rats! Can't be too many for our purpose," Gage returned impatiently. "We've got to make a business of it, if it's to do any good. Over you go. The water won't be any damper for you than it will be for me."
"You can swim," observed Peckover with something suspiciously like a chattering of the teeth.
"What odds does that make in four foot six of water?"
"Beastly weedy hole," remarked the unwilling adventurer.
"All the better. Makes it look more dangerous, and keeps people from seeing how shallow it is."
"I believe," said Peckover, with an admirable air of conviction, "there is an out-sized pike under those weeds. I just saw his scales glisten."
"Then you'll astonish him, that's all," was the unsympathetic reply. "Any one would think it was a crocodile or a shark by the funk you're in. Now, are you going over? Not knowing the treat that's in store for them these people aren't likely to wait all day. They'll be past directly. Stand up and swing your line out." Nerving himself to the disagreeable task, Peckover stood up, and began swinging the rod round his head.
"That'll do," said Gage, with a show of directing his attention elsewhere. "Now, over! That'll do with the rod. They'll think you mad. Over, you fool!"