“No,” I said; “not yet. Yes, he is: here he comes.”
“Has he got it?” cried Bob.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “he’s so far-off; but he has got something. He’s waving his handkerchief.”
“Here, hi! Stop! Don’t do that!” cried Bob, jumping up and throwing his arms about. “You’ll spill all the powder. There’s an old stupid. He don’t take any notice.”
“Why, how can he at all that distance away? You couldn’t make him hear if he was only a quarter as far.”
Bob did not reply, but sat down watching, and I did the same, while poor old Bigley came panting and toiling up the slope in the hot sun.
“Oh, isn’t he jolly slow,” cried Bob. “I wish I’d gone myself. It’ll take him all day.”
“You’d have lain down and gone to sleep before you were half-way up the hill,” I said maliciously, and Bob tightened his lips.
“Go on,” he said sourly. “I know what you want. You want to fall out, but I sha’n’t. I hate a fellow who always wants to get up a fight. I came here to-day to see if we couldn’t have a bit of fun, so I sha’n’t quarrel. Oh, I say, what a while he is! He’s just like old Teggley Grey’s horse, only he ain’t so quick.”
Poor old Bigley wasn’t quick, certainly, for it was hot, and hard climbing to where we were perched. To have come straight up was next to impossible: the only way was to come sidewise, getting a little higher as you walked along; and toiling industriously at his task, Bigley at last reached the foot of the piled-up mass where we were waiting.