She slid so neatly off her leaf that not a drop of water reached her back. Then she commenced to paddle, her feet alternate, her square tail trailing, her nose and face awash. Twin ripples spread on either side of her, and, in between them, though their distance widened, the Natterjack swam stoutly, using his squat hind-legs alone, short jerky thrusts of them, and losing at each stroke. He reached the shore two yards behind, but yet in time to see the last of her, a fluttering wavy tail-tip, which skimmed the summit of a stone and disappeared behind it. This was disheartening. The Natterjack had spent his strength, and quick pursuit was out of question. He paused and stretched each limb in turn, scratched his chin doubtfully, and looked about him. He looked first at the water, then at the stone to fix it in his memory, and lastly at the bank above. Here his eyes rested, expressionless at first, lack-lustrous, but presently, with quickened interest, sparkling. [Illustration] It must be, yes it was, the self-same furze-bush. He stared intently. It was the self-same stone. Perhaps the French Frog still was close at hand; perhaps the Shrew-mouse knew his hiding-place. He flung his tiredness off him, and started running jauntily. He had not far to go. Two scurries brought him to the stone, two scrambles to its summit. There was the Shrew-mouse just below. She was too occupied to note his coming. She coursed along the water's edge, her head dropped low, her face almost submerged. At times she paused and sniffed the air, her nose upturned and crinkly, her bristles fan-shape. Then she would drop her head again and probe the water. The Natterjack watched quietly for a while, but soon impatience mastered him. He crept down and addressed her timidly. "You said you might find the French Frog," he began. "I have found him," said the Shrew-mouse; "he's down there--as usual." "Down where?" said the Natterjack. "Down in the water," said the Shrew-mouse, "down at the bottom of this pool, a good foot down." "Would you mind asking him to come up?" said the Natterjack. "I've asked him for five minutes," said the Shrew-mouse. "He must be fast asleep. I know he's there; I've seen his bubbles." "How can we wake him?" said the Natterjack. "You'd better dive," said the Shrew-mouse. Now Natterjacks are bad enough at swimming; at diving they are hopeless. "In you go," said the Shrew-mouse. For very shame the Natterjack went in. He swam to what he judged a likely spot, ducked down his head, his hands pressed tight against it, and lunged with both hind-legs. These, splashing on the surface, urged him on, but not one inch below. Five times he tried, and five times his fat body, when half submerged, shot up and bobbed afloat. [Illustration: FIVE TIMES HE TRIED, AND FIVE TIMES HIS FAT BODY, WHEN HALF SUBMERGED, SHOT UP AND BOBBED AFLOAT] The Shrew-mouse rocked with laughter. "Again, Natterjack!" she cried. "Again! again!"