“One—two—three—four—five—six,” said Chris, by habit, counting the mustangs slowly.
“Hallo!” cried Ned. “Hurt one of your eyes?”
“Yes. It was when I came down with that ledge; I got both eyes full of dust and grit. Why?”
“Because you must be squinting,” said Ned.
“Is this another joke?” said Chris, with the glass to his eyes.
“It’s no joke,” replied Ned, “not to be able to count properly. Try again.”
“One—two—three—four—five—six,” said Chris, counting slowly.
“Nonsense! Only five. One of your eyes don’t go at all, seemingly.”
“I can see them distinctly through the glass,” cried Chris, with a touch of irritability in his tones.—“Why, Ned!”
“What’s the matter?”