“When we reach Cracow, you know.”
“Shall we get there to-morrow?”
“We ought to.”
“All right—Bob.” She said it with a sly little laugh.
“You’ll soon get used to it, Peggy. And now I’ll get you to carry my heavy coat, and if you’ll shake him up we’ll trot for a bit. The sooner we’ve put a mile or two between us and Bratinsk the better.”
CHAPTER V
AT PULTA
WE kept up a fair pace for nearly an hour, the horse moving at a slow, loping canter, with spells of walking for me to recover breath; and in this way we covered six or seven miles, which brought us to the foot of the steep rugged hills that divide Bratinsk from Pulta.
“We’ve about a mile and a half climb here, then a stretch of a mile or so along the top, and after that a tremendous hill down into Pulta,” I told “Peggy,” as we pulled up.
“Are you not tired?”
“No. I could cover a lot of ground at that jog trot. I’m pretty tough, you see.”