Wet Magic · Chapter 3 (3/3)

Francis was afraid to answer. He knew that his voice could never be subdued to anything as soft as the voice that questioned him, a voice like the sound of tiny waves on a summer night, like the whisper of wheat when the wind passes through it on a summer morning. But he pointed toward the lane where they had left the wheelbarrow and he and Mavis crept away to fetch it.

As they wheeled it down the waste place both felt how much they owed to Bernard. But for his idea of muffling the wheel they could never have got the clumsy great thing down that bumpy uneven slope. But as it was they and the barrow stole toward the gypsy’s tent as silently as the Arabs in the poem stole away with theirs, and they wheeled it close to the riven tent side. Then Mavis scratched again, and again the tent opened.

“Have you any cords?” the soft voice whispered, and Francis pulled what was left of the string from his pocket.

She had made two holes in the tent side, and now passing the string through these she tied back the flaps of the tent.

“Now,” she said, raising herself in the tank and resting her hands on its side. “You must both help⁠—take hold of my tail and lift. Creep in⁠—one on each side.”

It was a wet, sloppy, slippery, heavy business, and Mavis thought her arms would break, but she kept saying: “Die in captivity,” and just as she was feeling that she could not bear it another minute the strain slackened and there was the Mermaid curled up in the barrow.

“Now,” said the soft voice, “go⁠—quickly.”

It was all very well to say go quickly. It was as much as the two children could do, with that barrow-load of dripping Mermaid, to go at all. And very, very slowly they crept up the waste space. In the lane, under cover of the tall hedges, they paused.

“Go on,” said the Mermaid.

“We can’t till we’ve rested a bit,” said Mavis, panting. “How did you manage to get that canvas cut?”

“My shell knife, of course,” said the person in the wheelbarrow. “We always carry one in our hair, in case of sharks.”

“I see,” said Francis, breathing heavily.

“You had much better go on,” said the barrow’s occupant. “This chariot is excessively uncomfortable and much too small. Besides, delays are dangerous.”

“We’ll go in half a sec,” said Francis, and Mavis added kindly:

“You’re really quite safe now, you know.”

“You aren’t,” said the Mermaid. “I don’t know whether you realize that I’m stolen property and that it will be extremely awkward for you if you are caught with me.”

“But we shan’t be caught with you,” said Mavis hopefully.

“Everybody’s sound asleep,” said Francis. It was wonderful how brave and confident they felt now that the deed was done. “It’s perfectly safe⁠—Oh, what’s that! Oh!”

A hand had shot from the black shadow of the hedge and caught him by the arm.

“What is it, France? What is it?” said Mavis, who could not see what was happening.

“What is it⁠—now what is it?” asked the Mermaid more crossly than she had yet spoken.

“Who is it? Oh, who is it?” gasped Francis, writhing in the grip of his invisible assailant. And from the dark shadow of the hedge came the simple and terrible reply:

“The police!”