“I don’t like to ask leave to go,” thought Bart; “but oh, if I could only have permission! What a gallop! To be at the back of a drove of bison as they go thundering over the plain! It will be horrible if I have to stay.”
He looked towards where Joses stood frowning heavily, and still the Doctor gave no orders. He seemed regularly absorbed in his thoughts. The Beaver was growing impatient, and his men were having hard work to quiet their fiery little steeds, which kept on snorting and pawing up the sand, giving a rear up by way of change, or a playful bite at some companion, which responded with a squeal or a kick.
At last Joses began making signs to Bart that he should come over to his side, but the lad did not see them, for his eyes were fixed upon the Doctor, who at last seemed to start out of his musing fit.
“Ah!” he said; “yes, you men had better go. Tell them, Bart, to drive the bison as near camp as they can before they kill them. It will save so much trouble.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bart, drawing in his breath in a way that sounded like a sigh. “Any other orders?”
“No, my boy, no. Or, stop; they ought to have an Englishman with them perhaps. Better let Harry go; we can spare him. Or, stay, send Joses.”
The frontiersman uttered a snort, and was about turning to go to the spot where his horse was tethered, when he stopped short, to stand staring at Bart, with a look full of commiseration, and Bart read it truly— “I’ll stop, my lad, if you can get leave to go instead.”
Then came fresh words from the Doctor’s lips—words that sent the blood galloping through Bart’s veins, and made his nerves thrill and his eyes flash with delight.
“I suppose you would not care to go upon such a rough expedition as this, Bart?” the Doctor said.
“Oh, but I should, sir,” the lad exclaimed. “I’d give anything to go—if you could spare me,” he added.