“I might be worse,” said Tim, drily. “Heads!” he shouted by way of warning as he led the way under a group of umbrageous trees, beyond which they could see Shanter still trotting after the packhorse, which did not appear disposed to stop.
“Well, I’m as glad we’ve got off as Shanter is,” said Rifle as they ambled along over the rich grass. “I thought we never were going to have a real expedition.”
“Why, we’ve had lots,” said Tim.
“Oh, they were nothing. I mean a regular real one all by ourselves. How far do you mean to go to-night?”
“As far as we can before sunset,” said Norman; “only we must be guided by circumstances.”
“Which means wood, water, and shelter,” said Tim, sententiously. “I say, suppose after all we were to meet a tribe of black fellows. What should we do?”
“Let ’em alone,” said Rifle, “and then they’d leave us alone.”
“Yes; but suppose they showed fight and began to throw spears at us.”
“Gallop away,” suggested Tim.
“Better make them gallop away,” said Norman. “Keep just out of reach of their spears and pepper them with small shot.”