“You shall ’ear of this foolery, my fine feller,” said the distressed policeman, almost with a break in his voice.  “Seein’ as ’ow you refuse information, an’ this ferryman thinks fit to defy the law, I ’ave no course open but to whistle for my mate, and leave ’im ’ere while I telephone for a police-boat.”

He raised his whistle to his lips, but before he could blow it, the climax of this the least successful evening of his life, overwhelmed him.  A shadow swept over the party, a large flying substance caught him full on the back of the neck and knocked him off the landing-stage into the river.

The witch on Harold her Broomstick landed on the spot vacated by the policeman.

“Oh, look what I’ve done, look what I’ve done ...” she exclaimed in an ecstasy of vexation.  There was no need to tell anybody to look.  Five hundred odd people were already doing so with enthusiasm.  “Oh, what a dreadfully bad landing!  Oh, Harold, how could you be so careless?”

She took the cringing Harold by the mane and slapped him violently once or twice.  Richard stretched out his riding-crop to the splashing policeman, murmuring:  “Oh deah, deah....”

“Don’t be frightened,” said the witch to the policeman.  “We’ll soon get you out, and the water’s so shallow you can’t sink.  Talking of sinking, Richard, there’s a question that puzzles me rather.  If a rat got on to a submarine, how would it behave?  A submarine, you see, is a sinking ship, and rats pride themselves so on knowing when to——­”

Sarah Brown seized the witch by the shoulder.  “Go away, witch,” she said.

“How d’you mean—­go away?” asked the witch.  “I’ve only just this minute come.”

“Go away, go away,” was all that Sarah Brown could manage to repeat.

“Oh, very well,” said the witch in her offended grown-up voice.  “I can take a hint, I suppose, as well as anybody.  I’m going.”

She seated herself with an irritable flouncing movement on Harold’s saddle, and flew away.

The policeman climbed out of the water, looking like an enraged seal.  Peals of laughter from the other side of the moonlit river robbed him of adequate words.

“Not ser fast, my fine feller,” he roared, seeing Richard kissing the Horse Vivian on the nose, preparatory to riding away.  “Don’t you think for a minute I don’t know ’oo’s at the bottom of this.”

“You don’t know how tired I am of loud noises,” said Richard, lifting one foot with dignity to the stirrup.  “You don’t know how bitterly I long to be still and hear things very far off ... but always there is an angry voice or the angry noise of guns in the way....”

He twined one finger negligently into the mane on the Horse Vivian’s neck, and pulled himself slowly into the saddle.  The policeman stood mysteriously impotent.  Water dripped loudly from his clothes and punctuated Richard’s quiet speech.