of his neck. “Accepted.”
“Rest assured,” Miss Eulimene said, turning away from Flora. “They will be punished Mr Hergewick. But you might want to see to your friend with the bright trousers… a mule is making off with him.”
Fontarius turned towards the cottages. Sure enough one of the mules was acting as a platform for the groggy form of Mr Pipcastle. Although how either of them had wound up in the middle of the ploughed field with the stationery, bucket-drinking ox-team was a mystery; until Mr Pipcastle tried to push away one of the two chaps helping him (the mule driver), accidentally slapped the flank of the mule, who promptly charged towards the twinkling form of the lake to more frantic yells from the cottages.
“Why didn’t one of you have hold of the rope?” Fontarius yelled. “What is this place Canothril-Londst?”
He ran into the field, taking care to land on the ridges, then stopped and about-turned to say goodbye to the taller-than-most men lady with the eyes of cool steel blue; only to find no one about save the ace — no — plane tree. Frowning, he continued to stare along the road beyond, until his ears caught the connection of an unmistakable splash.
“Please Mr Hergewick! A voice that could only belong to a near-swooning Mrs Pipcastle yelled. “My husband’s in the Darn!”