Then followed a little discussion as to the order of starting, but Shanter settled it by tucking his nulla-nulla and boomerang into his waistband, shouldering his spear, and starting off at the head of the packhorse which followed him like a dog.
“All right,” said Norman.
“Yes. What a rum fellow he is!” whispered Rifle. “But I wouldn’t go very far to-day.”
The boys mounted, and gave a cheer as they said farewell to the water-hole.
“It almost seems as if all this had been a dream,” said Tim, as they rode on behind the black. “You wouldn’t think he had been so bad.”
“Yes, you would,” cried Norman, urging his horse forward, as he saw Shanter make a snatch at the packhorse’s load, and then reel.
But Norman saved him, and the poor fellow looked at him piteously. “Big boomer squeeze mine,” he whispered hoarsely. “Legs baal walk along.”
That was very evident, for he was streaming with perspiration, and gladly drank some water from their tubs.
Then the difficulty was solved by Norman making Shanter mount the horse he had himself ridden, and the journey was continued with the black striding the saddle and holding on by the sides of the stirrup-irons with his toes, for he could not be induced to place his foot flat on the bar, which he declared to be plenty “prickenum,” and always placing his first and second toes on either side of the outer edge of the upright part of the stirrup.
The pleasure had gone out of the trip now. It had been full of hard work before, but it was labour mingled with excitement; now it was full of anxiety as the little party noted Shanter’s weakness, and felt how entirely they depended upon him to follow the track they had made, one often so slight that they could not trace a sign on the short grass or hard ground. And as Norman said, if the black broke down again they might never be able to find their way home.