crept across, however, Fiennes keeping silence, laid myself flat on my belly, and peered down into the pool, shading my eyes with one hand.  For a long while I saw no fish, until the sun-rays, striking aslant, touched the edge of a golden fin very prettily bestowed in a hole of the bank and well within an overlap of green weed.  Now and again the fin quivered, but for the most part my gentleman lay quiet as a stone, head to stream, and waited for relief from these noisy Wykehamists.  Experience, perhaps, had taught him to despise them; at any rate, when gently—­very gently—­I lowered my hand and began to tickle, he showed neither alarm nor resentment.

“Is it a trout?” demanded Fiennes, in an excited whisper from the farther shore.  But of course I made no answer, and presently I supposed that he must have crept off to his clothes, for some way up the stream I heard the Second Master’s voice warning the bathers to dress and return, and with his usual formula, Ite domum saturae, venit Hesperus, ite capelloe!  Being short-sighted, he missed to spy me, and I felt, rather than saw or heard, him pass on; for with one hand I yet shaded my eyes while with the other I tickled.

Yet another two minutes went by, and then with a jerk I had my trout, my thumb and forefinger deep under his gills; brought down my other clutch upon him and, lifting, flung him back over me among the meadow grass, my posture being such that I could neither hold him struggling nor recover my own balance save by rolling sideways over on my shoulder-pin; which I did, and, running to him where he gleamed and doubled, flipping the grasses, caught him in both hands and held him aloft.

But other voices than Fiennes’ answered my shout over the river—­ voices that I knew, though they belonged not to this hour nor to this place; and blinking against the sun, now sinning level across Lavender Meads, I was aware of two tall figures standing dark against it, and of a third and shorter one between whose legs it poured in gold as through a natural arch.  Sure no second man in England wore Billy Priske’s legs!

Then, and while I stood amazed, my father’s voice and my Uncle Gervase’s called to me together:  and gulping down all wonder, possessed with love only and a wild joy—­but yet grasping my fish—­ I splashed across the shallows and up the bank, and let my father take me naked to his heart.

“So, lad,” said he, after a moment, thrusting me a little back by the shoulders (while I could only sob), and holding me so that the sun fell full on me, “Dost truly love me so much?”

“Clivver boy, clivver boy!” said the voice of Billy Priske.  “Lord, now, what things they do teach here beside the Latin!”

The rogue said it, as I knew, to turn my father’s suspicion, having himself taught me the poacher’s trick.  But my uncle Gervase, whose mind moved as slowly as it was easily diverted, answered with gravity—­