“Mind?” said Saxe, plumping himself down in the hay. “Well, it seems so queer. I can’t undress and lie in this stuff: see how it would tickle. It is pretty soft, though, and— Oh! murder!”
“What’s the matter?” cried Dale excitedly: “some insect?”
“No, it’s a jolly old stumpy thistle, like the top of a young pineapple. It did prick.—Yes, it is pretty soft, and it smells nice, and heigh ho hum! how tired I am!”
“You’ll take the other corner, Melchior,” said Dale; “I’ll lie here. There is no occasion to fasten the door, I suppose?”
“Fasten the door!” said the guide, with a quiet laugh. “Oh no. The only intruder likely to come is the wind, and he might open it and bang it, but he will not be abroad to-night. Look!”
“Look! what at?”
The guide pointed to the corner where Saxe had lain down, making a pillow of his arm.
Dale smiled.
“Comfortable, Saxe boy?”
There was no reply. The hay made a pleasant, sweetly scented couch. Saxe was fast asleep.