“I don’t believe he would,” cried Chris.
“No, you don’t, because he’s your father. He ain’t my father, and so I believe he did.”
“But did you look at your watch?”
“Nay, but I felt as if his must have been an hour too fast if he looked at it and found it twelve o’clock. Say, we might as well let watches take their chance now, and trust to the sun. He don’t want any winding up, and we shall have plenty to do without seeing to keys and that sort of thing.”
“I shall keep mine wound up,” said Chris decisively.
“So shall I,” cried Ned. “We don’t want to turn savages because we are going into the wilds.”
“Just as you like, squires, but you’ll do more good, I say, by being sure to wind up your revolvers and setting your rifles ready to strike one or two when they’re wanted. I say, we must talk to the boss about having some shooting if we see a chance.”
“There’s one then for the shot-barrel,” cried Chris excitedly, as he pointed to a hare—a jack-rabbit, as they called it—just startled by their animals’ feet, and bounding away as hard as he could go.
“Nay, we’re not going to waste powder and shot upon those things. I don’t like that bitter sort of meat.”
“They are bitter,” observed Ned. “My father says it’s because they eat so many of the artemisia shoots.”