It rained the next day, and they tramped disconsolately through village after village.
They had oil-cloth covers for their baskets, but their own backs were soaked to the skin.
Toward evening they came to the top of a hill, from which they could look directly down upon a large town lying comfortably in the crook of a river's elbow. The rain had stopped, and the belated sun, struggling through the clouds, made up for lost time by reflecting itself in every curve of the winding stream, in every puddle along the road, and in every pane of glass that faced the west.
"That's a nobby hoss," said Ricks, pointing down the hill. "What's the matter with the feller?"
A slight, delicate-looking young man was lying in the road, between the horse and the fence. As the boys came up he stirred and tried to rise.
"He's off his nut," said Ricks, starting to pass on; but Sandy stopped.
"Get a fall?" he asked.
The strange boy shook his head. "I
guess I fainted. I must have ridden too hard. I'll be all right in a minute." He leaned his head against a tree and closed his eyes.
Sandy eyed him curiously, taking in all the details of his riding-costume down to the short whip with the silver mounting.