“I wasn’t,” said Ned reproachfully. “But you may, and everything else I’ve got, for I shall never want them again.”
“Yes, you will, stupid. Oh, I say, don’t be such a Molly.”
Ned shook his head.
“Won’t you listen to me?” he said piteously.
“Why, of course I will, old chap. I’m only talking like this because I want you to be plucky. Ned, you’re not going to lie down and die. You can’t—you shan’t. I’ve felt like this for the last half-hour, but I won’t let myself believe that it’s all through the despair and misery we feel.”
“But it is, Chris. I’m glad I came with you, though,” said the poor fellow sadly.
“So am I, and it was very jolly and chummy of you. Just like you, Ned. We’ve often had rows, but we always made it up again, and I never liked you any the less. Never half so much as I did when you came trotting after me to look for this water.”
“I like to hear you say that,” said Ned, smiling faintly. “If you get safe back I want you to think still in this way after I’ve gone.”
“After you’ve gone!” cried Chris passionately. “Oh, if we’d only plenty of time and weren’t so faint, I should like to have the worst row with you that we ever tried to fight out. You’re not going to lie down and die. It would be absurd after we’ve got the water, and—”
Ned started and bent forward, holding on to the pommel of his saddle with both hands to steady himself, for as he rode almost backwards Chris suddenly clutched at nothing and nearly fell from his seat.