Accordingly, he availed himself of a heavy, newly-ploughed fallow, upon which he landed as he cleared the brook, for pulling up, and returned just as Mr.Spareneck, assisted by one of the whips, succeeded in landing Caingey on the taking-off side.

Caingey was not a pretty boy at the best of times--none but the most partial parents could think him one--and his clumsy-featured, short, compressed face, and thick, lumpy figure, were anything but improved by a sort of pea-green net-work of water-weeds with which he arose from his bath.

He was uncommonly well soaked, and had to be held up by the heels to let the water run out of his boots, pockets, and clothes.

In this undignified position he was found by Mr.Waffles and such of the field as had ridden the line.
'Why, Caingey, old boy! you look like a boiled porpoise with parsley sauce!' exclaimed Mr.Waffles, pulling up where the unfortunate youth was spluttering and getting emptied like a jug.

'Confound it!' added he, as the water came gurgling out of his mouth, 'but you must have drunk the brook dry.' Caingey would have censured his inhumanity, but knowing the imprudence of quarrelling with his bread and butter, and also aware of the laughable, drowned-rat figure he must then be cutting, he thought it best to laugh, and take his change out of Mr.Waffles another time.