Just at this point the bushes at Ned's feet stirred, and a faint voice murmured:
"Ned—are you there, Ned?"
In a moment Cruickshank was forgotten, and the whole pageant of the unsuccessful past vanished. Steve lived, that was enough for Ned.
"Yes, old man, of course I am. What is it?"
"Where am I, Ned, and what has happened?"
"You've tumbled down and stunned yourself, I think, Steve; but lie still a little and you'll come round all right."
"I don't think that's it, old man. I'm not in any pain, but I think (don't get riled at me)—I think I am going to send in my chips!"
"Nonsense, Steve. Don't make a blessed school-girl of yourself." Corbett spoke roughly to rouse his comrade to fresh effort, but his own voice was very husky in spite of himself.
"It's no good, Ned, you cain't get another kick out of me; and it doesn't much matter, anyway. Do you remember that Indian superstition about the owls hooting when a chief is going to die?"
"One of poor Rob's yarns, wasn't it?"