Chapter Eleven.
How to Ride.
“Poor old chaps!” cried Nic, as the dogs leaped and tore about when he left them, each straining at its collar with starting eyes, and uttering in unison a piteous howl which could only bear one interpretation:
“Oh, I say, it’s too bad! Don’t keep us tied up like this.”
Nic was ready to pity them again a few minutes after, when, in obedience to a shout and the crack of a whip, the sleek oxen, which stood yoked, blinking and chewing their cuds, started for the day’s march, tightening the dogs’ chains. Then the collies sulkily allowed themselves to be dragged along by the neck for a few yards before, feeling that resistance was in vain, they gave up and began to start barking in protest, running forward as far as their chains would allow under the waggon, as if longing to get at the oxen’s heels, and finally, after a loud yelp or two at one another, settling down to their prisoners’ tramp.
The horses were bridled and saddled after Nic had taken his gun from where it had been stood against a tree. The two men were in front of the team, with Brookes talking loudly and unpleasantly to his fellow; and the black was following behind the dogs, with his spear over his shoulder, at times lowering it to stir the dogs up behind whenever they showed an inclination to hang back.
This happened a minute after the start had been made, and Nic burst out laughing.
“I say, father, look at that,” he cried.
“I was looking, my boy,” said the doctor. “That fellow seems to understand the dogs better than we do.”
For, at the first touch of the spear, one of the collies turned round sharply, and barked; then the other received a prod—from the blunt end in both cases—and the bark uttered was exactly like a protesting “Don’t!”