It was the refrain of the old pack mule, "Riding, riding, riding on my old pack mule," which at last roused Steve Chance's indignation against the songster.
"Confound the old idiot!" growled the Yankee; "I wish he wouldn't remind me of the unattainable. I shouldn't mind riding, but I am getting pretty sick of tramping. Isn't it nearly time to camp, Ned?"
"Nearly time to camp? Why, we haven't made eight miles yet," replied Corbett.
"Oh, that be hanged for a yarn! We have been going five solid hours by my watch, and five fours are twenty."
"That may be, but five twos are ten, and what with stoppages to fix packs, admire the scenery, and give you time to munch a sandwich and tie up your moccasins, I don't believe we have been going two miles an hour. But are you tired, Steve?"
"You bet I am, Ned. If there really is no particular hurry let us camp soon."
"All right, we will if you like. Hullo, Cruickshank!" Cruickshank turned.
"Steve is tired and wants to camp—what do you say?"
Cruickshank hesitated a moment and then agreed to the proposition, beginning at once to loosen the packs upon the beasts nearest to him.