“I say, boys,” he exclaimed, “whereabouts are we?”
Norman looked at him, and a shade of uneasiness crossed his face, as he turned in his saddle.
“What made you say that?” he cried.
“I was only thinking that this place is very beautiful, but it seems to me all alike; and as if you might go on wandering for years and never get to the end.”
“Nonsense!” said Rifle.
“But how are we going to find our way back?”
“Go by the sun,” said Norman. “It would be easy enough. Besides we’ve got the compass, and we could find our way by that.”
“Oh, could we?” said Tim; “well, I’m glad, because it seemed to me as if we’ve wandered about so that we might get lost.”
“What, with Shanter here?” cried Rifle. “Nonsense! He couldn’t lose himself.”
“Want mine?” said the black, running back from where he was trudging beside the packhorse.