Ned stared, but obeyed, and together they led the animal between them, wading farther into the lake, with the water gradually getting deeper, when as it grew breast-high Ned burst out with—
“Yes, the water seems to have melted something in my head, and I can think now. I say, are there any alligators here?”
“I don’t know,” replied Chris. “Perhaps.—Come on, you brute!” he roared, for the mule began to jib and refused to go any farther in when from its own natural buoyancy and that of the barrels its legs refused to touch the bottom.
Chris’s fierce shout was accompanied by a heavy dig in the side from his knee, an act which Ned imitated with the result that the mule snorted, tossed up its head, and then lowered it, prior to kicking up its heels. But in performing the evolution of lowering its muzzle its mouth went down into the cool water, and the opposition ceased in the enjoyment of drawing in mouthfuls of the limpid element, while with all four legs separated to the utmost, the animal now refused to move.
“You brute!” roared Ned.
But the mule was quite aware of that fact. It knew it was one of the most despised of brutes, and had been told so till it ceased to have any effect, while now that it was drinking, whip or spur, kick or blow would have had no effect.
“Never mind,” cried Chris. “I know—we can manage.” As he spoke he rapidly opened the tompion-like cover of one bung-hole, letting it rattle down by the side of the empty barrel and hang by its little brass chain, and then dragged at the barrel, trying vainly to bring the opening down to a level with the water.
“Oh, do something, Ned,” shouted Chris. “We ought to be on the way back. Shove your barrel up as high as you can.”
Ned thrust his shoulder under the side and forced the barrel up, and the wooden pack-saddle gave a little at the same time.
“That do?” he cried.