“If there was one.”
“If there was one,” assented Emson. “Now then: think you’re mushrooming out in the old field at home, and see if you can’t find the nest. Move off now a couple of hundred yards, and keep your eyes open.”
Dyke followed out his brother’s advice, and for the next hour they rode over the ground here and there, to and fro, and across and across, scanning the sandy depressions, till Emson suddenly drew rein, and shouted to Dyke, who was a quarter of a mile away.
Dyke sent his cob off at a gallop and joined him.
“Found it?” he cried excitedly.
“No, old fellow. It’s a failure this time. Man wants sharp eyes to get the better of an ostrich. I made sure we should get it, but we’re done. We’ve been over the ground times enough, and it’s of no use.”
“What! give up?” cried Dyke merrily. “Didn’t say we’d find it the first time, but I mean to have that nest, if I try till to-morrow morning.”
“Well done, little un,” shouted Emson, laughing. “That’s the right spirit, and I should like to have had the eggs; it would have started us on again. But I’m afraid we shall be wasting time, for we’ve lost count now of the position where I saw the bird rise, and in this great waste we may wander farther and farther away.”
“But we can tell by the hoof-marks where we’ve been.”
“Yes; and we’ve pretty well examined the ground. I tell you what, we’ll bring the glass this evening, and lie down watching till dark. We may see a bird come to the nest, and then we’ll mark down the place, and one shall stop back, while the other rides forward, and number one can telegraph which way to go with his arms.”