Part 14 (1/2)
So Gage had to submit, which he did with a better grace when he reflected that there might, after all, be some risk in saving a panic-stricken lover of life in really deep water.
The two fishermen made a great fuss over their sport, angling as probably no one in this world had ever angled before, and in a manner calculated not to take in the most unsophisticated fish that ever swam.
What their proceedings, however, lacked in method, they made up in exuberance; never before had two such showy fishermen sat in a punt.
Naturally their intention was to emphasize, generally, their existence, more particularly their presence in the punt on the lake, and incidentally their designs upon the fish. To their satisfaction they saw that they were not without observers. The farmer, to whom the grazing of the park was let, had luckily put in an appearance to inspect his sheep, accompanied by a semi-sporting person who might, however, have been, and indeed was, a butcher from Bunbury in quest of raw material. Presently two women came in sight, crossing the park by a right of way which skirted the lake.
The moment was propitious.
”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!”
Thus adjured, Peckover took the plunge, if plunge it can be called.
Dropping the whirling rod on the placid surface of the lake, he suddenly stooped, nervously clutched the gunwale of the punt and, a.s.sisted surrept.i.tiously in the manoeuvre by Gage's left foot, tamely rolled over the side. His despairing shout, which had been agreed upon, was smothered by the shock of the cold water and the utterer's general preoccupation. It therefore remained for Gage to do the shouting, which duty he performed with a vigour out of proportion to the apparent exigences of the case.
CHAPTER XIV
For the dripping Peckover was still holding tenaciously on to the side of the punt, with a fixity of purpose which no mere considerations of stage effect seemed likely to dispose him to relax. Added to this, there was more of his body above the surface of the water than appeared quite consistent with the idea of imminent and deadly peril; this was accounted for by the fact that he was standing, miserably enough, on the bottom of the lake.
”Get down! Let go of the punt! D'ye hear?” commanded Gage, in an exasperated undertone. ”What's the good of hanging on there like a fool? Get down, will you? Duck that idiotic mug of yours under water, or how am I to go after you?”
”I--d--d--daren't,” chattered Peckover: ”my feet are slipping or sinking or something; it's dashed deep mud at the bottom.”
”I wish your head was in it instead of your feet,” retorted his prospective heroic rescuer, all the while making a fine show of bustle, for which, however, as viewed from the sh.o.r.e there was no obvious need.
”Will you get down, before I knock you under?”
As he spoke Gage was surrept.i.tiously jabbing at Peckover's fingers, and, incidentally, at his face with the b.u.t.t-end of his rod. This somewhat drastic method of enforcing his orders and ensuring the vraisemblance of the performance was perhaps justified by the manifest absurdity and uselessness of his taking a showy and heroic dive in order to rescue a man who was, to the spectator's eye, holding comfortably on to a substantial punt with his breathing organs high out of the water. As matters--that is to say, Peckover--stood, danger was the last thing that would suggest itself to the casual onlooker. The note at the moment was farcical; it was urgently necessary to change it to the tragic, even at the expense of loosening a few of Peckover's front teeth.
That unhappy dissembler, finding the episode of having a bra.s.s-capped b.u.t.t in forcible contact with the more sensitive and damageable parts of his physiognomy more than he had bargained for, spluttered forth an objurgatory remonstrance, and, to cut short the objectionable attentions, let go, disappearing forthwith under the side of the punt.