All this carefully done before the breakfast was attacked.
“I don’t call it a breakfast,” grumbled Ned.
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Chris. “Cheer up; we haven’t so far to go now as we had yesterday morning.”
“Well, I know that,” snarled Ned, who seemed all on edge. Chris called it gritty, and said it was the sand—to himself.
“He gets it on his temper,” thought the boy. “How queer it is that being hot and tired and thirsty makes any one so cross.”
“Forward!” said the doctor at last, when the packs had been readjusted; and the dreary tramp began again, with the sun getting hotter and hotter every hour.
“Oh dear!” groaned Ned, as they tramped side by side, each with his hand resting upon his pony’s neck and holding on by the mane. “That miserable tinful of water! Why, it was only half-a-pint, and it will be hours before we’re allowed any more. Why not let us have a pint all at once?”
“Against the rules,” said Chris. “You should have made believe, as I did.”
“Believe what?”
“No, I didn’t believe it,” said Chris; “I only played at it. I drank my half-pint very slowly, and pretended it was a pint. You do the same the next time.”