Dick o' the Fens Part 45

"Hooray, Dave! a forty-pounder!" cried d.i.c.k. "Push the punt in and we can easily catch him."

"Not you," said Dave stolidly; "he'll get through that faster than we could."

"But, look, look! I can see where he is."

"Nay, he'll go all through theer and get deeper and deeper, and it's more wattery farther on. He'll go right through theer, and come out the other side."

"But he was such a big one, Dave--wasn't he, Mr Marston?--quite forty pounds!"

"Nay, not half, lad," said Dave stolidly, as he thrust the boat on.

"Beat away. We'll come and set a bait for him some day. That's the way to catch him."

d.i.c.k uttered an angry e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n as he looked back towards where he could still see the water plants waving; and in his vexation he raised his pole, and went on with the splas.h.i.+ng so vigorously, and, as legal folks say, with so much _malice prepense_, that he sent the water flying over Dave as he stood up in the bows of the punt.

Tom chuckled and followed suit, sending another shower over the puntsman. Then d.i.c.k began again, the amber water flying and sparkling in the suns.h.i.+ne; but Dave took no notice till the splas.h.i.+ng became too p.r.o.nounced, when he stopped short, gave his head a shake, and turned slowly round.

"Want to turn back and give up?" he said slowly.

d.i.c.k knew the man too well to continue, and in penitent tones exclaimed:

"No, no, go on, Dave, we won't splash any more."

"Because if there's any more of it--"

"I won't splash any more, Dave," cried d.i.c.k, laughing, "It was Tom."

"Oh, what a shame!"

"So you did splash. Didn't he, Mr Marston?"

"I don't want to hear no more about it, Mester d.i.c.k. I know," growled Dave. "I only says, Is it to be fis.h.i.+ng or games?"

"Fis.h.i.+ng, Dave. It's all right; go on, Tom; splash away gently."

"Because if--"

"No, no, go on, Dave. There, we won't send any more over you."

Dave uttered a grunt, and forced the boat along once more, while Marston sat in the stern an amused spectator of the boys' antics.

Everything now went on orderly enough, till they had proceeded a long way on, in and out, for a quarter of a mile, when at a word from Dave the splas.h.i.+ng and stabbing of the water grew more vigorous, the punt being now pretty close to the net, the irregular row of bundles of rushes showing plainly.

And now Dave executed a fresh evolution, changing the position of the punt, for instead of its approaching end on, he turned it abreast, so that it pretty well touched the reedy sides of the ca.n.a.l, and with the poles now being plied on one side, the boat was made to approach more slowly.

"Now, mester, you'd better stand up," said Dave.

"Yes, Mr Marston, stand up," cried d.i.c.k. "Look!"

Marston rose to his feet, and as he looked toward the entrance where the net was spread there was a wave-like swell upon the surface, which might have been caused by the movement of the boat or by fish.

There was no doubt about its being caused by fish, for all at once, close by the row of rush bundles, there was a splash. Then, as they approached, another and another.

"They're feeling the net," cried d.i.c.k excitedly.

"Ay, keep it oop, lads, or they'll come back," cried Dave, making the water swirl with his pole, which he worked about vigorously.

Even as he spoke there came another splash, and this time the sun flashed upon the glittering sides of the fish which darted out and fell over the other side of the top line of the net.

"There goes one," shouted Tom.

"Ay, and theer goes another," said Dave with a chuckle as he forced the boat along slowly.

And now, as Marston watched, he saw that the irregular line of rush bundles which stretched across the mouth of the ca.n.a.l was changing its shape, and he needed no telling that the regular semicircular form it a.s.sumed was caused by the pressure of a shoal of fish seeking to escape into the open mere, but of course checked by the fragile wall of net.

"There must be a lot, Tom," cried d.i.c.k excitedly. "Look, Mr Marston!

There goes another. Oh, Dave, we shall lose them all!"

This was consequent upon another good-sized fish flying out of the water, falling heavily upon one of the rush floats, and then darting away.

"Nay, we sha'n't lose 'em all," said Dave coolly. "Some on 'em's safe to go. Now, then, splash away. Reach over your end, young Tom Tallington, or some on 'em 'll go round that way."

Tom changed his place a little, to stand now on what had been the front of their advance, and thrusting in his pole he splashed and beat the narrow s.p.a.ce between him and the dense boggy side, where the sphagnum came down into the water.

d.i.c.k followed suit at the other end, and Dave swept his pole sidewise as if he were mowing weeds below the surface.

"Oh!" cried d.i.c.k, as he overbalanced himself, and nearly went in from the stern. He would have gone headlong had not Mr Marston made a bound, and caught him as he vainly strove to recover his balance.

The effort was well timed, and saved him, but of course the consequences of jumping about in a boat are well-known. The punt gave such a lurch that Dave almost went out, while, as for Tom, he was literally jerked up as from a spring-board, and, dropping his pole, he seemed to be taking a voluntary dive, describing a semicircle, and going down head-first, not into the narrow slit between him and the boggy sh.o.r.e, but right into the semi-fluid ma.s.s of sphagnum, water, and ooze, where he disappeared to his knees.

Tom's dive sent the boat, as he impelled it with his feet, a couple of yards away; and for a moment or two those who were in it seemed half paralysed, till a roar of laughter from d.i.c.k, who did not realise the danger, roused Dave to action.

For the dense ma.s.s, while fluid enough to allow Tom to dive in, was not sufficiently loose to let him rise; and there he stuck, head downwards, and with his legs kicking furiously.

"Now if we was to leave him," said Dave sententiously, "he wouldn't never be no more trouble to his father; but I suppose we must pull him out."

"Pull him out, man? Quick, use your pole!"

"Ay, I'm going to, mester," said Dave coolly. "Theer we are," he continued, as he sent the end of the punt back to where poor Tom's legs went on performing a series of kicks which were sometimes like those made by a swimming frog, and at others as if he were trying to walk upside down along an imaginary flight of aerial stairs.

The time seemed long, but probably it was not half a minute from the time Tom dived into the bog till the young engineer seized him by the legs and dragged him into the boat, to sit upon the bottom, gasping, spitting, and rubbing the ooze from his eyes. But it was a good two minutes before he was sufficiently recovered to look round angrily, and in a highly-pitched quavering voice exclaimed:

"Look here: who was it did that?"

"n.o.body," roared d.i.c.k. "Oh, I say, Tom, what a game! Are your feet wet?"

Tom turned upon him savagely, but everyone in the boat was laughing, and his countenance relaxed, and he rose up and leaned over the side of the boat to wash his face, which a splash or two relieved from the pieces of bog and dead vegetation which adhered.

"I don't mind," he said. "Only you wouldn't have found it a game if you'd been there."