“You are a lucky one, Chris,” he said, in an ill-used tone.
“What!” cried the boy angrily; but the next moment the remark presented such a ludicrous side that he began to laugh, and then, possibly from exhaustion and the result of the exciting passages he had gone through, his mirth grew at once almost hysterical, so that he could not check himself.
“Why, what’s the matter?” cried Ned wonderingly. “Have I said anything comic?”
“Horribly,” panted Chris; “but I do wish you’d go, and let me sleep.”
“I will soon,” said Ned; “but I don’t see what there is to laugh at, unless you feel jolly triumphant at getting all the best of the expedition to yourself.”
“I do,” said Chris. “It was lovely being shot at with arrows and tumbling down those precipices, better than any dream I ever had.”
The boy’s face looked mirthful, and Ned did not notice the bitterly sarcastic ring there was in his comrade’s words, as he said in an envious tone—
“Well, it’s all very fine, but I shall tell father that it isn’t fair for you to be made the favourite, and I don’t think you’ve behaved well.”
“Don’t you?” said Chris, sobering down. “I’m very sorry; but I’ve done the best I could.”
“Perhaps so, but I don’t think that if I had lost my pony I could have lain there and grinned as you’ve done. Poor brute! I almost believe I would rather have died myself.”