"I bet you he wouldn't," said Tommy. "Look here, you get a good swimmer—any one you like, I don't care who he is—and I'll bet you five pounds I'll land him in under half an hour."
"Done with you," I replied. "And what's more, I'll bet you another fiver he breaks your line inside of five minutes."
Mortimer chuckled.
"There's money in this," he observed. "We'd better advertise it in the Sportsman and charge for seats. We might make quite a decent thing out of it."
As he spoke we rattled round the corner of a deeply embedded lane, and, of a sudden, the Wye lay before us, gleaming like silver in its cool green valley.
"That's the bungalow," said Tommy, pointing to a low, red-tiled building which one could just catch a glimpse of through the trees. "The boathouse must be just below us."
We trundled delicately down the hill, for the road rather resembled the traditional highway to Zion, and pulled up outside a solid-looking building on the banks of the river.
Tommy stopped the engine, and we all clambered out. The island lay exactly opposite, its neatly painted landing-stage facing us across the water.
"Why, there's the boat!" exclaimed Mortimer suddenly. "Over there by the steps—look!"
He pointed towards the island, and following his gesture, we all saw a small dinghy apparently tied up to one of the willows that fringed the bank.