“When you ask me as if you meant it, boy.”
“Ah, then! I can’t ask!” cried Saxe. “Let’s have a look at Melk.”
He took the glass extended to him, rested his back against a block of stone, and carefully examined the figure.
“I say, isn’t he wet! You can see his clothes sticking to him. But, Mr Dale, what a swim he must have had. Ah—ae—e—oh—diah—di—ah—diah—”
“Don’t, boy, for goodness’ sake!” cried Dale, clapping his hand over Saxe’s lips. “If Gros hears that, he’ll take fright and bolt.”
“What, at my cry? That’s jodelling I’m learning.”
“Then practise your next lesson in a cornfield, when we get home. Any farmer would give you an engagement to keep off the crows.”
“Oh, I say, Mr Dale!” cried Saxe, “you are too bad. Just you try whether you can do it any better.”
“No, thanks,” said Dale, laughing: “I am full of desire to learn all I can, but I think I shall make an exception with regard to the jodel. Come along down, and let’s meet him.”
They descended the rock so as to get on to the rugged plain; and ten minutes after Melchior rode up on his bare-backed mule, soaking wet, and with the mule steaming; but otherwise, as far as they could see, neither was any the worse for the late adventure.