“Well, what shall you do?” said his cousin.
“Learn that whistle, and manage the ponies myself.”
“Humph!” grunted Mark. “That will be no good as long as that dreary fellow is near them.”
“I say,” said Dean, as he and his cousin were tramping along in the rear, gazing eagerly about to the right and left of the track, thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the scenery, and looking out the while for something that might be a pleasant addition to their next meal.
“Well, what do you say? That you don’t see any game?”
“No,” said Dean. “I want you to look at black Mak.”
“Well, what of him? I think he’s as dingy black a nigger as ever I saw. Not a bit like those flat-nosed woolly-headed fellows that we used to see at home.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“What do you mean, then?” said Mark impatiently.
“That he seems so sour and surly, as different as can be from what he was yesterday. We didn’t do anything to give him offence. Let’s see; what did we do yesterday and the day before to hurt his feelings?”