“What, retreating?”
“I should say so; retiring on the detachment he had sent out, as a soldier would say. To put it differently, he’d begin to think as you did, for though you said nothing I could see your first thought was about your father. Wasn’t it?”
“Of course,” said Chris huskily.
“Yes, of course; and he’d say to himself, ‘There’s my boy over yonder with that long, thin Yankee chap.’ We must join them at once. Now, don’t you see, if anything had happened we should have met them before now?”
Chris could not speak, but reached over to hold out his hand, which was warmly grasped by Griggs, who then began to talk cheerily.
“Very stupid of me,” he said. “I was feeling tired and mouldy. I’ve had precious little sleep, fidgeting about this wild-goose sort of expedition. I’m precious hungry too, and that makes a poor fellow feel low-spirited. My word, I mean to make my mark in that roast turkey to-night! Sniff, sniff, sniff! That isn’t roasting I can smell, coming with the wind, is it?”
Chris laughed, and Griggs went on chatting.
“Keep a tight rein over these stony bits. I do like to take care of a horse,” he said. “Poor beggars, they’re the best of friends, but I do wish they wouldn’t be such cowards. Getting up a stampede like that and chipping and straining themselves, all on account of a bear. They’ve no pluck.”
“Then I suppose I’ve none either,” said Chris, “for the bear frightened me.”
“Ha, ha! Yes, and poor Mr Bourne too. My word, didn’t he holloa!”