Chapter Twenty Nine.
Desperate Straits.
Chris uttered a wild whoop of delight.
“Water! Water! Water!” he shouted. “Here we come!”
The announcement was intended for those he had left at the camp, but the words seemed to be lost in the immensity of space. But he did not heed this, only pressed on, to halt at the end of a hundred yards for the others to come up. His pony had lowered its head as if recognising the track and started off at a canter; but Chris realised directly that the progress did not depend upon him but the mule, which at starting refused to go in advance of Ned, and stubbornly stood still, and no urging would make it move.
“Come on first, Ned,” shouted Chris, as the efforts of his companion proved to be in vain.
“Oh, he is a brute!” cried Ned, but he did as he was ordered, following his leader, and the mule, heavily-laden as it was, lowered its head and began to lounge along last at the regular mule pace.
“Oh, but this won’t do,” cried Chris, as they came up. “I never thought of it when we were filling the barrels. It’ll take no end of time to get back like this.”