“But the barrels—they’re not empty yet.”
“They are,” said Chris solemnly. “I stood by this afternoon, and saw every drop drained out.”
“Oh!” groaned Ned. “Then it’s all over now.”
“It isn’t, I tell you. We must go.”
“We couldn’t do it; we’re too weak. Come and ask your father what he says.”
“It’s of no use: I feel sure he’s like poor Griggs here. There, the sun’s going down, looking red as blood. Quick; the ponies can carry us, and we’ll get the mule with the empty barrels between. He’ll go then.”
“Let’s ask Wilton to go.”
“Let’s try and act like men,” cried Chris passionately. “There, you mustn’t oppose me. That’s the way, straight there by where the sun is sinking. It must be right. You must, you shall come.”
One weaker than Chris was then would have been sufficient to overawe Ned in those terrible moments, and he yielded without another word.
The two water-barrels with their linking-chain and the wooden wool-stuffed pack-saddle lay ready, and the mule that had borne them suffered itself to be led to where it stood snuffling at the wooden vessels and passing its tongue about the bung-holes, till they were slung across its back, and then it stood quietly enough, as if instinctively grasping the object of this movement.