“No, I think not. It’s getting so dark there. I say; I can see they’re lifting one of the men to carry him.”
“Wish some one would carry me,” groaned Mark.
“I don’t think I can,” said Ralph. “Perhaps I could, though, if you could hold on.”
“Bah!” cried Mark sharply. “Likely. Come on, and I’ll coax that beast of a pony. If I can only get hold of him, I’ll make him carry us both.”
They pressed on in silence, Mark using his sword as a walking-stick with one hand, and compelled to accept his enemy’s arm, till they came up to where the cob was grazing.
It let them come close up before raising its head, and then, after contemplating them for a bit, twitching his ears, as Mark uttered a series of blandishments, and ended by tossing its head, and spinning round, as upon a pivot, to trot off. It failed in this, however, for Ralph thrust his foot through the trailing rein, and brought the animal up short.
“Well done!” cried Mark. “There, jump on, and then pull me across like a sack.”
“Nonsense! Get on yourself. I’ll help you.”
“I shan’t, it’s my pony. You’re wounded, so get on.”
“After you,” said Ralph, and, after a little more bandying of words, Mark felt so sick with pain that he had either to lie down on the earth or mount.