“Here, I know,” said the driver good-humouredly. “Good boy! Always obey orders.”
But all the same the deliberate crawl of the bullocks made both the lads terribly impatient.
“I wish you had got your whip, Buck,” said Dean. “Oh, I don’t know, sir. Let ’em alone. It’s their way. They are going willing enough, and they have had a nasty night. I never give them a touch up only when I see one lazy and won’t pull. Then it’s crick crack, and I let go at a fly on his back.”
At last, though, the span belonging to the second waggon had taken their places, and Dunn Brown was at the front waiting for the sonorous “Trek!” which Buck Denham roared out, accompanied by a rifle-like report of his tremendous whip, when Dunn threw up his hands, stepped right before the team, and stopped them.
“What game do you call that?” roared Buck, from where he was seated on the waggon chest.
“Too—late,” sighed the white foreloper, and he drew out his scissors to begin his morning apology for a shave.
“Can’t you see, Buck?” cried Mark. “Come along, Dean. Just think of that!”
For, slowly trudging along, Bob Bacon appeared, bending low under his burden, giving his fellow-keeper a comfortable pick-a-back, having carried him all the way from where he had been found lying helpless, and apparently now not much the worse for his novel ride.
“Bravo, Bob!” cried Mark, as he and his cousin ran up to meet them. “Why, you haven’t carried Peter all this way?”
“Phew! Arn’t it hot, sir! Not carried him? Well, what do you call this?”