It was no doubt buried in the mud, and as safe as if the pond were full to the brim.
"Isn't it ripping ?" said Dicky.

"It wasn't easy to do, but it only wanted a little management.

I mean to go in for engineer-- Hullo, what's that rummy stone out there?
or is it a stone, or a fish, or-- I say, Tom," he added, clutching my arm, "I'm bothered if that's not a pistol!" My white face and chattering teeth made reply unnecessary.

There, snugly perched on a little heap of stones, as if set up for inspection, lay the unlucky pistol, gleaming in the afternoon sun.
Dicky looked first at the pistol, then at me; and began slowly to take in the state of affairs.
He took a cautious step out in the mud in the direction of the weapon, but came back.
"I thought you could hardly be chucking in all those things for fun," said he presently.
I stood gaping in an imbecile way, and said nothing.
"I know whose it is.

He had it up here once before." "I say," gulped I, "can't you let the water in again ?" Dick had not considered this.