“Yes, splendid!” For by pressing down with all his force Chris got the opening level at last with the water, which began to stream in till its weight rendered the task less difficult, and by degrees the barrel kept its own position, the air within going out in strange hollow sounds as it was dislodged.
“Now I’m more than half full, Ned,” cried Chris eagerly. “I’ll hoist up my side while you draw your barrel down.”
This task proved more difficult, but after a few tries a little water rushed into the empty receptacle. Then a little more and a little more, till Chris thrust upward with all his might, and the clear fluid ran in with a rush, till the mule raised its head, shook the drops from its muzzle, and whinnied.
Then, feeling far less buoyant from what it had drunk and the way in which the light barrels began to be turned into weights which kept it steady, there was no more resistance to being led in deeper, so that with very little effort the casks were lowered in turn till the water ceased to flow in, and the tompions were replaced and safely secured.
The water was now, at every movement made, passing in little waves right over the mule’s spine, and there it stood showing its teeth as if preparing to bite, but made no vicious effort, only stood blinking its eyes and turning its ears in all directions as if in the height of enjoyment.
As soon as the second barrel was secured, “full to the bung,” the mule’s head was turned.
“Go on!” shouted Chris, and it slowly walked out of the shallowing water, till it stood dripping on the sandy marge.
“Now,” cried Chris, “I’m going to lead my mustang in as far as I can wade, so as to get regularly soaked, and it will freshen the beasts too.”
“Yes, capital. Shall we take off the saddles?”
“No, we won’t stop.”