CHAPTER FOUR.
A LESSON IN SWIMMING.
It was hot! One of those dry summers when the air seems to quiver with the heat, and one afternoon, as I was in my old place at the window watching Shock go to and fro, carrying baskets of what seemed to be beans, George Day came along.
"I say," he cried, "ask leave to come with us.

We've got a half-holiday." Just then I saw the bristling shoots on the wall shake, but I paid no heed, for I was too much interested in my new friend's words.
"Where are you going ?" I asked.
"Oh, down the meadows! that's the best place, and there's no end of fun to be had.

I'll take a fishing-rod." I went to where my mother was lying down and asked her consent, receiving a feeble _yes_, and her hand went up to my neck, to draw me down that she might kiss me.
"Be back in good time," she whispered.

"George Day, you said ?" "Yes; his father is something in London, and he goes to the grammar-school." "Be back in good time," she whispered again; and getting my cap, I just caught sight of Shock at the top of the wall as I ran by the window.
"Poor fellow!" I thought, "how he, too, would like a holiday!" "Here I am," I cried; and feeling as if I had been just released from some long confinement, I set off with my companion at a sharp run.
We had to call at his house, a large red brick place just at the end of the village, close to Isleworth church, where the rod was obtained, with a basket to hold bait, lines, and the fish that we were going to catch; and soon after we were down where the sleek cows were contentedly lying about munching, and giving their heads an angry toss now and then to keep off the flies.
Rich grass, golden butter-cups, bushes and trees whose boughs swept down towards the ground, swallows and swifts darting here and there, and beneath the vividly blue sky there was the river like so much damascened silver, for in those days one never thought about the mud.
I cannot describe the joy I felt in running here and there with my companion, and a couple of his school-fellows who had preceded us, and who saluted us as we approached with a shout.
We ran about till we were tired, and then the fishing commenced from the bank, for the tide was well up, and according to my companion's account the fish were in plenty.
Perhaps they were, but though bait after bait was placed upon the hook, and the line thrown out to float along with the current, not a fish was caught, no vestige of that nerve-titillating tremble of the float--a bite--was seen.
Every now and then some one struck sharply, trying to make himself believe that roach or dace had taken the bait, but the movement of the float was always due to the line dragging the gravelly ground, or the bait touching one of the many weeds.
The sun was intensely hot, and scorched our backs, and burned our faces by flashing back from the water, which looked cool and tempting, as it ran past our feet.
We fished on, sometimes one handling the rod and sometimes the other-- beginning by throwing in the line with whispered words, so as not to frighten the fish that were evidently not there, and ending by sending in bait and float with a splash, and with noise and joking.
"There's a big one," some one would cry, and a clod torn out from the bank, or a stone, would be thrown in amidst bursts of laughter.
"Oh it's not a jolly bit of good," cried one of the boys; "they won't bite to-day.

I'm so thirsty, let's have a drink." "No, no, don't drink the water," I said; "it isn't good enough." "What shall we do then--run after the cows for a pen'orth of milk ?" "I say, look there," cried George Day; "the tide's turned.