Wolf noticed that the poet’s expression assumed a look of almost beatific contentment as he proceeded to enter upon a whispered conversation with the small boy, who himself, as far as Wolf could see, was too occupied in casting awestruck glances at the Squire to give the least attention to what was being said to him.

“It’s not too warm, gentlemen,” called out Bob Weevil, with a forced shiver, pulling himself up, rather foolishly and self-consciously, by the tree-trunk in front of him.

“Why don’t you take a swim, Weevil?” enquired Mr. Urquhart blandly.

“He dursn’t, Sir. He’s afeared of they girt water-snakes,” cried Lobbie Torp.

Bob Weevil’s reply to this taunt was to drop his hold upon the tree, swing himself round, and strike out boldly for the centre of the pond.