The Doctor looked at him in a half-thoughtful, half-hesitating way, and remained silent for a time, while Bart felt upon the tiptoe of expectation, and in a horrible state of dread lest his guardian should alter his mind.
“Better stop, Bart,” he said at last. “Bison-hunting is very difficult and dangerous work. You might be run or trampled down, or tossed, or goodness knows what beside.”
“I’d take the greatest care to be out of danger, sir,” said Bart, deprecatingly.
“By running into it at every turn, eh, my boy?” said the Doctor, good-humouredly. “Then I’ll ask the opinion of Joses, and see what he says. Here, Joses!”
The frontiersman came up at a trot, and then stood leaning upon his rifle.
“What do you think?” asked the Doctor. “Would it be safe to allow Bart here to go with you after the bison?”
“You mean buffler, don’t you?” said Joses, in a low, growling tone.
“No; I mean bison,” replied the Doctor, sharply. “You people call them buffalo. I say, do you think it safe for him to go with you?”
“Safe? Course it is,” growled Joses. “We shall want him too. He’s so light, and his Black Boy is so swift, that the hunting party will get on better and cut out more buffalo meat if he comes.”
“Well, then, according to that, Bart,” said the Doctor, good-humouredly, “I suppose I must let you go.”