“Now get between the nags’ heads and hold them still. You and they will form three sides of a square: I’m going to be the fourth.”
“What for?”
“To light a match.”
“Oh, don’t stop to smoke now,” said West reproachfully. “Let’s get on.”
“Who’s going to smoke, old Jump-at-conclusions? I’m going to carry out our plan.”
Scratch! and a match blazed up, revealing Ingleborough’s face as he bent down over it to examine something bright held in one hand—something he tried to keep steady till the match burned close to his fingers and was crushed out.
“Horses’ heads are now pointing due north,” he said. “Keep where you are till I’m mounted. That’s right! Now then, up you get! That’s right! Now then! Right face—forward!”
“But you’re going east.”
“Yes,” said Ingleborough, with a little laugh, “and I’m going with West or by West all the same. We must keep on till we get to the railway, cross it, and then get over the border as soon as we can.”
“What, follow out my plan?”