“How are we to find our way back?” said Tim. The black stared without comprehending. “Here, let me,” said Rifle. “Hi, Shanter! Mine find big white Mary over there?” and he pointed.
“Baal fine big white Mary,” cried the black, shaking his shock-head hard. “Big white Mary—Marmi dere.”
He pointed in a contrary direction.
“How do you know?” said Rifle.
The black gave him a cunning look, stooped, and began to follow the footprints of the horses backward. Then turning, he laughed.
“Of course,” said Norman. “How stupid of me! Follow the back track.”
“But suppose it comes on to rain heavily, and washes the footmarks out. How then?”
“Don’t you croak,” cried Norman, who was himself again. “Who says it’s going to rain?”
“Nobody,” said Tim; “but it might.”
“Pigs might fly,” cried Rifle.