“There are six.”
“Stuff!”
“There are, I tell you. Why, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! My pony’s there.”
“What! You mean his ghost.”
“Ghosts can’t eat grass,” shouted Chris wildly.
“Why not? Horses’ ghosts would when they couldn’t get corn.”
“It is! It is!” cried Chris, with a sound like a sob in his throat, and certainly there were tears in his eyes as he handed the glass to his comrade. “Look! Look for yourself; it’s my dear old mustang. Ah! there! he’s walking lame. And I thought he was dead—I thought he was dead!”
“It is, old chap,” cried Ned, after a hurried glance. “He must have got here somehow and joined his mates in the night. I never noticed it, and no one else did, of course.”
“Oh, Ned, this is good luck!”
“Good? It’s glorious! Luck squared or cubed, or somethinged, up to the tenth power. Here, let’s go down and see. Can you walk?”