'"
Again the voice died away in soft cadences, and again all was
silence. I rose once more upon my elbow, and gazed into the green
depths of the wood; but saw only the blackbird perched upon a twig
and listening with head askew.
"Flower of the May,
Bird of the--"
The voice quivered, trailed off and stopped. I heard a rustling of
leaves to the right, and then the same voice broke out in prose, in
very agitated and piteous prose--"Oh, my boat! my boat! What shall I
do?"
I jumped to my feet, caught a glimpse of something white, and of
two startled but appealing eyes, then tore down to the bank.
There, already twenty yards downstream, placidly floated the boat,
its painter trailing from the bows, and its whole behaviour pointing
to a leisurely but firm resolve to visit Pangbourne.
My own boat was close at hand. But when did hot youth behave with
thought in a like case? I did as ninety-nine in a hundred would do.
I took off my coat, kicked off my shoes, and as the voice cried,
"Oh, please, do not trouble," plunged into the water.
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