“No. We’ve kept too sharp a lookout for them.”
“Oh!” cried Chris wildly, and his face contracted with pain.
“Well, I suppose it hurts,” said Ned, with a trace of sympathy in his voice, “but I wouldn’t holloa like that. Get up and move about, the stiffness will soon go off.”
“I wasn’t shouting because of my hurts,” said Chris bitterly. “I was thinking of my poor mustang.”
“Yes,” said Ned, after a pause; “that was a horribly bad job; but I’ve been thinking about it all, old chap, and I’ve settled what we’ll do. I’m going to play fair—same as you would if it had been my nag. We’ll share one between us. I’ll have him one day, and you shall have him the next.”
“That wouldn’t be fair,” said Chris, who was rubbing himself and kneading his joints where they ached.
“Yes, it would. You wait and hear. Then we’ll have that mule that we took to fetch the water—old Brown Ginger. He’s a regular brick, and likes us. Don’t kick so much as the others—and take it in turns to ride him. What do you say now?”
“Well—yes! I like that idea; but you wouldn’t care for that.”
“Look here, you’re growing a sore-boned, old disagreeable. Say I’m a selfish beast at once.”
“Shan’t!”