As Danny and the two Cubs stood together on the mossy bank of the moat, the old punt sank.
“She did a good bit of work on her last voyage,” said Nipper, as if he was speaking of a first-class cruiser, or a mine-sweeper at least.
“I wonder she kept up as long as she did,” said Danny, “she’d got a huge hole in her bottom. I got a horrid shock when I saw what you two kids were in.”
“But it wouldn’t have mattered if she had sunk,” said Bob, “you had taught us both to swim. Don’t you remember what a job you had with Nipper—he would play about all the time, and splash everybody, instead of practising? I always did my best all the time, and didn’t give in to myself.”
Nipper hurriedly changed the subject.
“You must be awfully hungry,” he said to Danny, “or did you eat rats? Look, we’ve brought you a lot of grub. Sit down and eat it before we start home—there’s four miles to walk.”
Danny shuddered. “No, I didn’t eat the rats,” he said. He sat down on the bank, and made short work of all the grub the Gladstone bag contained.
“That’s better,” he said at last. He looked an absolute scarecrow, his shirt still inside out, no neckerchief, and smears of dirt all over his very pale and haggard face.
They were only able to go slowly, for Danny ached from head to foot, for the place had been terribly damp, and the rats had prevented him from sleeping a wink.
“Did you give up hope?” said Nipper.