The Cock-House at Fellsgarth

by Talbot Baines Reed

“You see,” said Wally, “it’s much more likely to be the island than the mountain. There’s water there, for one thing.”

“There’s water on the mountain,” said Ashby; “plenty.”

“But not good to drink, you ass!” argued Wally.

“And there’s that old broken boat-house to live in, and lots of wood to make fires, and ducks to bag and fish to catch. I say! I expect he’s having rather a lark.”

The prospect of sharing in his wild sports urged them on still faster.

At the lake-side a new problem arose. If Rollitt was on the island, how had he got there? And, still more important, how were they to get there? Widow Wisdom’s boat had already been laid up for the winter; and the few others, which in the summer were generally kept at the river-mouth for the use of the boys, had been taken back to Penchurch. The only craft available was a flat-bottomed punt used by fishermen, and at present moored to a stake at the river-bank. It was capacious, certainly, but not exactly the sort of boat in which to get up much pace, particularly as its sole apparent mode of propulsion was by means of two very long boat-hooks, one on either side. These details, however, presented few obstacles to the minds of the enterprising explorers. The punt was in many ways adapted for a voyage such as they proposed to take. There was room to walk about in it. Nay, who should say the boxing-gloves and football might not have scope for themselves within its ample lines?

The one question was whether the boat-hooks were long enough to touch bottom all the way from the shore to the island. Wally paced one, and found it measured eighteen feet.

“Ought to do,” said he; “it’s bound not to be deeper than that.”

So the punt, which was christened the “Cock-house” for the occasion, was loosed from her moorings, the Abernethys and knuckle-bone and other stores were put on board, the boat-hooks, by a combined effort, were got into position, and the party embarked for the rescue of Rollitt.

Thanks to the stream, their progress at first was satisfactory. They were delighted to find how easily they went. Wally with one boat-book on one side, and Percy with the other on the other side, had comparatively little to do except to prevent their hooks getting stuck in the mud at the bottom, and refusing to come out. Any one watching them would have said these boys had been born in a barge. They carried their long poles to the prow, and plunged them in there with a mighty splash. Then they shoved away, till the end of the poles came within reach of their hands. Then, in perfect step and time, they started to march, each down his own side of the boat, calling on their friends and admirers to get out of the way. Then, as they neared the stern, and the prospect of pulling up their hooks and returning fora’d for another “punt” loomed ahead, their faces grew anxious and concerned. They began to hold on “hard all,” a yard from the end of the walk, and tug frantically to get themselves free. Sometimes the hook came out easily, in which case they fell backwards into the arms of their friends. At other times it stuck, and they had to detain the progress of the boat a minute or more to get it out. And sometimes it all but escaped them, and continued sticking up out of the water while the barge itself floated on. Happily, the last tragedy never quite came off, although it was periodically imminent.