“What, the goats up in the mountains?”
“Yes, and those big horned sheep; but I feel sure he was laughing at us about their jumping about the precipices, and running along ledges full gallop when they’re only a few inches wide.”
“Oh, I don’t know; he hadn’t got that queer cock of the eye that he has when he’s spinning a yarn.”
“Well, no; but it was a good deal like throwing the hatchet. Didn’t you see how serious your father looked?”
“Yes, but not so serious as your father did when Griggs declared that he’d seen flocks of those sheep running away from people stalking them till they got to the edges of the precipices where they could go no farther; and then jump down head first so as to come on the great thick twisted horns which cover their foreheads, and bounce up again, and go on running along a lower part.”
“Yes, I saw. Why, a big, heavy sheep if he came down like that would break his horns.”
“Break his horns!” cried Ned. “He’d break his neck.”
“I should like to shoot one of those fellows,” said Chris.
“Or be below when one of them jumped, came down on his head, and broke his neck,” said Ned. “I say, mutton—neck of mutton—leg of mutton! Wouldn’t a good roast joint be a treat?”
“Oh, what a fellow you are for thinking about eating!” cried Chris impatiently.