“Yes, it’s me, my brave Irish boy!” said Dick.
“An’ ye didn’t bring another of the horses for me, sor?”
“No, Dinny, I didn’t,” replied Dick, smiling at the other’s cowardice. “My father said you were to hold on by the stirrup-leather.”
“What, and walk acrost?”
“To be sure.”
“Saints alive! I daren’t do it, Masther Dick, dear. Sure the bottom of the say—I mane the river—there’s paved wid crockydiles; an’ every step I took I could feel them heaving up under me.”
“What, as you were going across, Dinny?”
“Yis, sor. Not as I minded as long as they kep’ quiet; but whin one hungry baste laid howlt toight o’ me trousers, and scratched me leg wid his ugly teeth, I felt that it was time to be off back, and I jist escaped.”
“Hoi, there, Dick! Look sharp!”
“Coming!” roared Dick. “Now then, Dinny. There are no crocodivils here.”