In those hot, weary hours the elasticity and cheerfulness of the boys died away. In the early morning it had been all laugh and chat and notice of everything they passed that seemed novel, but with the coming of noon quite a change came over them, and Ned took to sighing from time to time, then to murmuring, and at last after a long, low expiration of the breath—
“Oh dear,” he cried, “I am getting so tired of this!”
“Well, you are a fellow!” grumbled Chris. “Only an hour or two ago you talked as if you liked it.”
“Ah, I wasn’t so hot and fagged out then. It gets so jolly monotonous. Here we go on, ride and tramp, ride and tramp, day after day, seeing nothing but sand and sage-brush, sand and sage-brush. Always tired, always being scorched by the sun till one’s giddy, and—”
“Here, father!” cried Chris, but without turning his head.
“What are you going to do?” said Ned, in a hurried whisper.
“Call father up, for you to grumble to him.”
“Nonsense!” whispered Ned. “Don’t be a stupid donkey. Can’t I say a word or two without you wanting to tell tales?”
“I don’t want to tell tales; I want for you to tell father yourself. You talked as if you had had enough of it, and wanted to go back.”
“Who wants to go back?” cried Ned angrily. “Nice thing if one can’t say what one likes about one’s feelings! I only said what I did because I was hot and tired, and it is so tiresome, one day just like another, and not a bit of adventure to go through. Why, I expected no end of fun in that way—I mean, no end of excitement.”