“Serve you right,” said Ned, as they climbed quickly up towards the place from whence they had first seen the Indians. “If it had been my father’s glass I’d have given up in a moment instead of laying claim to it.”
Chris was silent, and involuntarily he touched both of his cheeks, as if to feel whether they were as hot outside as they were in.
He found them hotter, and they grew hotter still by the time they had reached their lookout, creeping to it during the last fifty yards and keeping behind stones and bushes and every other bit of cover in their way. “Wo-ho!” cried Chris cheerily then, as he lay on his chest looking down towards the salt plain, with the nettled feeling dying out fast. “Come on; you can see capitally from here.”
“Oh!” cried Ned sharply.—“Here, catch hold.”
As he spoke he held out the glass.
“What’s the matter?”
“Something in my right eye.—I can’t see.”
He was rubbing it violently, and it certainly looked red and inflamed.
“Got something in it?”
“Yes, a fly or a bit of dust, or else I’ve rubbed it too hard. You must look out, and I’ll take the messages.”