118 WINTER 



fingers and dived away. He pushed down the butt 

 of his musket, turned it flat, but it was not broad 

 enough to cover the opening. Then he lowered him- 

 self again, and stood in it, wedging the musket in 

 between his boots; but he could feel the water still 

 tearing through at the sides, and eating all the 

 faster. 



He clambered back to the top of the bank, put his 

 hand to his mouth and shouted. The only answer 

 was the scream of the wind and the cry of a brant 

 passing overhead. 



Then the boy laughed. "Easy enough," he mut- 

 tered, and, picking up the musket, he leaned once 

 more out over the river and thrust the steel barrel 

 of the gun hard into the mud just below the hole. 

 Then, stepping easily down, he sat squarely into the 

 breach, the gun like a stake in front of him sticking 

 up between his knees. 



Then he laughed again, as he caught his breath, 

 for he had squeezed into the hole like a stopper into 

 a bottle, his big oil-skins filling the breach com- 

 pletely. 



The water stood above the middle of his breast, 

 and the tide was still rising. Darkness had now set- 

 tled, but the ghostly ice-cakes, tipping, slipping to- 

 ward him, were spectral white. He had to shove 

 them back as now and then one rose before his face. 

 The sky was black, and the deep water below him 

 was blacker. And how cold it was ! 



