“It is lucky Cottle is along,” said Mr. Whyland to Oliver, as they dropped a bit behind. “We could never find the right track by ourselves. To me half a dozen appear to be the right ones.”
“That is so,” returned the boy. “It isn’t like a city with a signboard at every corner. One could get completely lost without half trying.”
“We must keep close together. I will warn your friend too. Should one or the other stray away, much time might be lost in coming together again.”
The path was now up the side of quite a steep mountain. It was full of huge bowlders from around which the rain had long since washed all the sand and gravel. To one side grew small trees and thick bushes, while on the other was a steep incline, leading far below to a raging mountain torrent.
“Rather a dangerous place,” observed the boy as he gazed down into the rushing waters; “if this mule should take a false step”—
“But they never do, as far as I ever heard,” said Mr. Whyland. “They know the danger quite as well as the rider.”
Instead of getting better the road grew worse, until Cottle stopped and allowed those in the rear to catch up.
“This path has been partly washed away since I was over it before,” he said. “You want to be careful. If it gets much worse, we will have to turn back and take another road that is better, but nearly twice as long.”
“We will follow you,” said Mr. Whyland. “We trust ourselves entirely in your hands.”
After this they kept close together. The mules no longer stepped forward with ease. Each head was down, and every foothold was tested before the step was taken.