“Is there any danger?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“I’d love to cross.”

“Jump in, then.”

“You don’t mind if I leave you on the other side?”

“Yes, I do.  You hang on to Jill.”

Mavis enticed Jill into the punt, where the dog sat in the stern in her usual self-possessed manner.  Perigal struggled with the rope by which the punt was moored to the stump of a tree.  Very soon, they were all adrift on the stream.  They made little progress at first, merely scraping along the overhanging branches of pollard willows; now and again, the punt would disturb long-forgotten night lines, which, more often than not, had hooked eels that had been dead for many days.  Mavis began to wonder if they would ever get across.

“Stand by!” cried Perigal suddenly, at which Mavis gripped both sides of the punt.

It was well she did so, for the next moment the punt swerved violently, to blunder quickly down stream as it felt the strength of the current.

“Are you frightened?” asked Perigal.

“Not a bit.”

“Hold tight to the bank if your end strikes first.”

“Right you are.”

Perigal did his best to steer the punt, but without much success.  Presently, the bows hit the side, at which Perigal clutched at the growth on the bank.

“Step ashore quickly,” he cried.  “It’s beginning to let in water.”

“How exciting!” remarked Mavis, as she stepped on to the bank.

“Just wait till I tie her up.”

“Where’s Jill?” asked Mavis suddenly.

“Isn’t she with you?”

“See if she’s in the river.”

“If she is, the punt striking the bank must have knocked her overboard.”

They looked, but no sign could be seen of the dog.  Mavis called her name loudly, frantically, but no Jill appeared.

“What shall I do?  Oh, what shall I do?” she cried helplessly.

“Look!” cried Perigal suddenly.  “Look, those weeds!”

Mavis looked in the direction indicated.  About six feet from the bank was a growth of menacing-looking weeds under the water, which just now were violently agitated.

“I’ll bet anything it’s Jill.  She’s caught in the weeds,” said Perigal.

“Let me come.  Let me come,” cried Mavis.

“It’s ten feet deep.  You’re surely not going in?”

“I can’t let her drown.”

“Let me—­”

“But—­”

“I’m going in.  I can swim.”

Perigal had thrown off his coat, kicked off his boots.

The next moment, he had dived in the direction in which he believed
Jill to be.

Mavis was all concern for her pet.  Although she knew that, more likely than not, she would never see her alive again, she scarcely suffered pain at all.  Although incapable of feeling, her mind noted trivial things with photographic accuracy—­a bit of straw on a bush, a white cloud near the sun, the lonely appearance of an isolated pollard willow.  Meantime, Perigal had unsuccessfully dived once; the second time, he was under the water for such a long time that Mavis was tempted to cover her eyes with her hands.  Then, to her unspeakable relief, he reappeared, much exhausted, but holding out of the water a bedraggled and all but drowned Jill.