ON MARSH AND DYKE 311 



'' No, no, you 'ont, for yer gun be at the bottom of the 

 dick along with the eelies." 



Unfortunately, I possess a somewhat keen sense of 

 humour, and the absurdity of that marshland scene — 



B shining like a disreputable '' Father Thames," 



crowned in duckweed and other aquatic vegetation, and 

 covered from crown to sole with a thick coating of the 

 very " nosiest " of " nosey " black mud, dancing with 

 rage, and hurling maledictions at the fiery red head of the 

 insolent little bailiff, whilst the old bob-tail sheep-dog 



barked round and round him (B ) in a frenzy of 



delight — so appealed to my risibility that for a few minutes 

 I was quite unable to render my poor friend the slightest 

 assistance. But, when I did go to the rescue, he went for 

 me " bald-headed," and in language more forcible than 

 polite, informed me that he would return to town and 

 civilisation that very minute. 



" Don't you think you had better go up to the home- 

 stead and change your clothes, for at present you are 

 scarcely in trim for London ? It would also be as well 

 to wait until the tide leaves the sands, unless you mean 

 to swim to the mainland, old chap," I suggested, trying 

 to stifle an irrepressible fit of laughter. 



" Then, by heavens ! I'll swim rather than remain on 

 such a God-forsaken wilderness as this, amongst a lot of 

 confounded savages ! " 



I ran poor B up to the homestead, and after a 



warm bath in a wash-tub (and a very small tub it was), 

 and several stiff pegs of whisky, he began to thaw a little, 



