He burst into a tremendous peal, in which his companion joined, for anything more comic than the aspect of the "Solemn-un" up to his neck in the bog it would be hard to conceive.

"Here, this won't do," cried d.i.c.k at last, as he too stood wiping his eyes. "Poor old Sol, we mustn't let you drown. Come on, Tom, and let's help him out."

How d.i.c.k expected that he was going to help the donkey out he did not say; but he began to pick his way from tuft to tuft, avoiding the soft places, till he was within twenty feet of the nearly submerged animal, and then he had to stop or share his fate.

"I say, Tom, I can't get any farther," he cried. "What shall we do?"

"I don't know."

"What a fellow you are!" was the angry reply. "You never do know. Old Sol will be drowned if we don't look sharp. The bog is twenty feet deep here."

"Can't he swim out?"

"Can't you swim out!" cried d.i.c.k. "What's the good of talking like that? You couldn't swim if you were up to the neck in sand."

"But he isn't up to his neck in sand."

"But he's up to his neck in bog, and it's all the same."

"Ahoy! what's matter?" came from a couple of hundred yards away; and the lads turned, to see that it was Hickathrift shouting, he and the others having just succeeded in taking up the root to its destination.

"Ahoy! Bring the rope," shouted d.i.c.k.

"He-haw--haw--haw--haw!" shouted the Solemn one dismally, as if to emphasise his young master's order.

"Why, how came he in there?" cried Hickathrift, trotting up with the rope, but picking his way carefully, for the peat shook beneath his feet.

"He went in himself," cried d.i.c.k. "Oh, do get him out before he sinks!

Make a noose, and let's throw it over his head."

"We shall pull his head right off if we do," said Hickathrift, but busily making the noose the while.

"Oh, no, I don't believe you would!" cried Tom. "He has got an awfully strong neck."

"It won't hurt him," said Dave, who came up slowly with the rest.

"Well, there's no getting it under him," said the wheelwright; "he'd kick us to pieces if we tried."

"I'll try," said d.i.c.k eagerly.

"Nay, I weant let you," said Hickathrift. "I'll go my sen."

"It weant bear thee, neighbour," said John Warren warningly.

"Eh? wean't it? Well, I can but try, mun. Let's see."

The good-natured wheelwright went cautiously towards where d.i.c.k was standing waiting for the rope; but at the third step he was up to his middle and had to scramble out and back as fast as he could.

"I'm too heavy," he said; "but I'll try again. All right, I'm coming soon!" he added as the donkey uttered another dismal bray.

But his efforts were vain. Each time he tried he sank in, and at last, giving up to what was forced upon him as an impossibility, he coiled up the rope to throw.

"Thou mun heave it over his head, my lad. Don't go no nigher to him; it isn't safe."

He threw the rope, and d.i.c.k caught the end and recoiled it preparatory to making a start over the moss.

"Nay, nay, stop!" shouted Hickathrift.

"I must go and try if I can't put it round him, Hicky," cried d.i.c.k.

"Come back, thou'lt drownd thysen," shouted Dave excitedly.

"No, I won't," said d.i.c.k; and picking his steps with the greatest care, he succeeded in stepping within ten yards of the donkey, which made a desperate struggle now to get out and reach him, but without success; all he did was to change his position, his hind-quarters going down lower, while his fore-legs struck out into the daylight once or twice in his hard fight for liberty.

"Now, my lad, heave the rope over his head, and we'll haul him out,"

cried Hickathrift.

But d.i.c.k paid no heed. He saw in imagination the poor animal strangled by the noose; and with the idea that he could somehow get alongside, he struck out to the left, but had to give up, for the bog was more fluid there.

On the other side it was even worse, and d.i.c.k was about to turn and shout to the men to try if they could not get the punt up alongside, when a fresh struggle from Solomon plainly showed him that the animal must be rescued at once or all would be over.

d.i.c.k made one more trial to get nearer, in spite of the cries and adjurations of those upon the firmer ground; but it was useless, and struggling to a tuft of dry reed, he balanced himself there and gathered up the rope, so as to try and throw the loop over the donkey's head.

As he held it ready there was another miserable bray, and the lad hesitated.

"It means killing him," he muttered. "Poor old Solomon! I never liked him, but we've had so many runs together."

His hand dropped to his side with the rope, and he tottered, for the reed tuft seemed to be sinking.

Solomon brayed again and fought desperately to free himself, but sank lower.

"Heave, d.i.c.k, heave!" shouted Tom.

"Throw it over, my lad! throw it over, or thou'lt be too late!" cried the wheelwright; but d.i.c.k did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the donkey's head, but his thoughts were far back in the past, in sunny days when he had been riding by the edge of the fen to the town, or down to the firm sand by the sea, where Solomon always managed to throw him and then gallop off. Then there were the wintry times, when the donkey's hoofs used to patter so loudly over the frozen ground, while now--

Perhaps it was very childish, for d.i.c.k was a strongly built lad of sixteen, and had his memory served him truly it would have reminded him of that terrible kick in the leg which lamed him for a month--of the black-and-yellow bruise upon his arm made by the vicious animal's jaws one day when he bit fiercely--of that day when he was pitched over Solomon's head into the black bog ditch, and had to swim out--of a dozen mishaps and injuries received from the obstinate beast. But d.i.c.k thought of none of these, only of the pleasant days he had had with the animal he had known ever since he could run; and, whether it were childish or not, the tears rose and dimmed his eyes as he stood there gazing at what seemed to be the animal's dying struggles, and thinking that it would be kinder to let him drown than to strangle him, as he felt sure they would.

"Why don't you throw, d.i.c.k?" cried Tom again in an excited yell that was half drowned by Solomon's discordant bray, though it was growing more feeble as the struggles were certainly more weak.

All at once d.i.c.k started and his eyes grew more clear. It was not at the warning shout of the wheelwright, nor the yell uttered by the other men, but at the action of the sufferer in the bog. For, feeling himself surely and certainly sinking lower, the donkey made one more tremendous effort, extricating his fore-legs and beating the fluid peat with them till it grew thinner, and with neck outstretched and mouth open it sank more and more back, till head and legs only could be seen.

d.i.c.k did it unconsciously. His eyes were fixed upon the struggling beast, but his ears were deaf to the shouts behind him. All he heard was the dismal bray enfeebled to a groan so full of despair that the lad threw the rope, and in throwing lost his balance, fell, and the next moment was struggling in the mire.

He tried to rise, but it was impossible, and as he fought and struggled for a few moments it was to find that the bog was growing thinner and that the patches about him, which looked firm, were beginning to sink.

Was he too going to drown? he asked himself, and something of the sensation he had felt on the night of the flood came over him.

Then he felt a s.n.a.t.c.h, and a voice like thunder brought him to himself.