“Think I should like to get hold of that long-legged ’un. I’d make him sing to a different tune instead of giving us another specimen of his whistlin’.”
By this time the ponies were far down the track, headed by their strange visitor, whom the boys had fully expected from moment to moment to see leap upon one of his companion’s backs.
“Well,” said Mark, “this is getting up for a refresher before breakfast!”
“Yes, sir,” said Buck. “It’s about spoilt mine. Why didn’t you bring him down last night, Mr Mark? I am sure he desarved it.”
“No, he didn’t,” cried the lad addressed. “Look at that! I say, father, hooray! He’s come back.”
The boy was quite right, for it was plain enough now, distant as the objects were, to see in the clear bright morning their nocturnal visitor describe a curve upon the open country side and, slackening his pace, begin trotting back, the little drove of ponies dropping from their canter into a steady trot, coming nearer and nearer till their leader brought them to where the party had camped for the night; and here they drew up short and began to crop the tender green shoots again, while the strange visitor, who did not seem in the slightest degree out of breath, drew his long pendent moustachios through his hands.
“Well, sir,” said Sir James sharply, “pray, what does this mean?”
“Mean?” said the man sadly. “Ponies—know me.”
“So it seems,” said Sir James; “but I’ve bought them.”
“Yes,” said the man, in his most melancholy tone.