“Not going to be such a fool,” said Ned gruffly. “It’s all too real to play. Bother! Hang it! Yah! I wish there wasn’t a scrap of gold in the world.”
“But there is, all the same. Come, cheer up, lad.”
“Cheer down, you mean. It’s getting worse and worse, and I don’t believe we shall ever get across this horrible plain. What is there to be cheerful about?”
“Well, here’s one thing—we’ve got away from the Indians. There isn’t a sign of them behind.”
“Of course there isn’t,” grumbled Ned. “Indians are not such idiots as to come across a place like this.”
“Griggs says they do sometimes.”
“I don’t believe it; they must always go round. Oh, I do wish we hadn’t come.”
Somehow or other, the more low-spirited and doleful Ned became, the more hopeful and cheery Chris seemed. Perhaps it was what he called make-believe, and put on by a great effort, but he was the brightest of the party and brought a smile to the lip of every one in turn with his light, trivial remarks, all of which, however, had a suggestion that, in spite of their terrible sufferings, he was looking at the best side of things.
“I say, father,” he cried, as mid-day was approaching, “this is a better desert than the other one we crossed.”
“I don’t see much difference, my boy. Why do you think so?”