“No; it wasn’t exactly that; but if you get back to them and are saved, you may have my four-bladed knife with the stone-pick and lancet in it.”
“Oh, hang your old knife!” cried Chris ungraciously. “I don’t want it. Mine’s ever so much better, and doesn’t hurt your hand when you’re cutting anything. Now, no nonsense! Fancying you’re going to fall off your pony and not being able to get up again! Why, if you go on fancying such things as that in the hot sunshine, you’re pretty well sure to turn giddy and go down. Look here.”
“Yes?” sighed Ned.
“I feel just as bad as you do, but I don’t begin a lot of nonsense about leaving you my knife.—Such stuff!”
“It isn’t stuff,” sighed Ned. “I’m horribly ill now. So faint and strange.”
“Have some water. I’ll get some out.”
“No, no, no; I’ve had enough. I don’t feel a bit parched and thirsty now, for the water seems to have gone right into me from my wet clothes.”
“The same here,” said Chris, after a glance over his shoulder to see if his pony was keeping to the return trail, and being convinced that he was. “I could talk like you, for I never felt so ill before. I say, how one’s things are drying in the sunshine! I’ve quite done dripping.”
“Yes; but, Chris, I haven’t told you all I was going to say.”
“And you needn’t. You were going to say that I might have your German silver pocket-comb too.”