“Hurt yourself!” cried Dale anxiously.
“Hurt myself, sir!” said Saxe reproachfully, as he scrambled up slowly: “just you try it and see. Oh my!” he continued rubbing himself, “ain’t these stones hard!”
“Here,—give me your hand.”
“Thankye. It’s all right, only a bruise or two. I don’t mind, now old Melk’s safe.”
“Don’t deceive yourself, Saxe,” said Dale sadly.
“What! Didn’t you hear him jodel?”
“Yes, and you may hear every Swiss mountaineer we meet do that. You hailed him, and the man answered, and he is coming toward us,” continued Dale, straining his eyes again to watch the slowly approaching figure. “Bah! How absurd! I’m as bad as the sailor who put his cutlass into his left hand, so that he could have his right free to knock an enemy down with his fist.”
As he spoke, he dragged at the strap across his breast, took a little field-glass from the case, adjusted the focus, and levelled it at the distant figure.
“Hurrah, Saxe, you’re right!” he cried, lowering the glass, seizing the boy’s hand and wringing it vigorously.
“Hurrah! it is,” cried Saxe; “I knew it. I could tell by the twist of that jolly old mule’s head. I say, you owe me all you’ve got, Mr Dale. When are you going to pay?”