Zed leaped out of the boat in a confounded hurry, when he thought it was near enough for him to gain the shore; but he leaped out too soon, for he fell flat on his face among the "warp," as the mud of the Trent is called in Lincolnshire, and floundered like a flat fish when it has been left by the water in a situation where it cannot get away. "Holloa! what, in the name o' bad luck, are you about?" cried Phil, hearing poor Zed make a mighty scuffle among the mud. Zed made no answer, but kept struggling on; for the fact was, that he was so eager to secure the bird, that he had succeeded in laying hold of one of its legs, and, keeping hold, prevented himself from rising. The heron and Zed made a desperate flapping and floundering, insomuch that Phil roared out, more than once,— "What, in the name of heaven and earth, are you about, I say, Zed?" "Keep the boat in shore," cried Zed, with his mouth half filled with mud; "I shall have her in another minute." "'Don't say so till you're sure!'" retorted Phil again; and just then the sportsman who had shot the heron jumped out of his boat on a firmer part of the strand, and, running along the bank, arrived at the spot where Zed was struggling with the bird. He struck off Zed's hold of the fowl with a slight blow from his fowling-piece, and bore away the bird in triumph. Zed slipped into the Trent, and went souse over head, but rose instantly, and clambered into the boat. He vented his disappointment and vexation against the sportsman in no very gentle terms, while the sportsman mocked him from the bank; and, when the captor of the heron stepped into his boat, Zed urged Phil to pull away, that they might capsize the fellow, and give him a ducking, as he said in his foolish haste. But Phil was always Zed's better angel, though he was but a blind old fiddler. "No, no, Zed," he cried, "you shall not go that way. Let us make for home, that you may get to the fire-side. I say you shall _not_ go—and I mean it, too." Nobody in the world could control Zed Marrowby but Phil Garret, when old Zed was in his fuddled freaks; and even Phil could not always succeed; but Zed's wet shirt helped to cool his choler in this instance. "To old Nick with the fellow, and his heron-sue!" cried Zed, pulling in the same direction with Phil; "I'll e'en let him take his live lumber: what good will it do him?" "Just as the fox said of the grapes, when he couldn't reach 'em—'Hang 'em! they're as sour as crabs!'" rejoined Phil; "but that was what I said to myself, when you were struggling so hard to get the useless fowl; and what good would it have done you, Zed?" "Hang me, if I know, exactly!" replied Zed, looking foolish, and wishing himself in a corner.