“I beg your pardon, Joses, for not believing you,” said Bart, earnestly. “I see now.”
“Oh, it’s all right enough,” said the rough fellow bluntly. “I shouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it, and of course it’s only up the little shallow streams that shoot off from the others.”
This conversation took place some days after they had been in the mountains, gradually climbing higher, and getting glorious views at times, of hill and distant plain. Bart and Joses were out “after the pot,” as the latter called it, and on this occasion they had been very unfortunate.
“I tell you what it is,” said Joses at last, “we shall have to go lower down. The master won’t never find no gold and silver up here, and food’ll get scarcer and scarcer, unless we can come upon a flock of sheep.”
“A flock of sheep up here!” said Bart incredulously.
“I didn’t say salmon, I said sheep,” grunted Joses. “Now, say you don’t believe there is sheep up here.”
“You tell me there are sheep up here,” said Bart, “and I will believe you.”
“I don’t say there are; I only hope there are,” said Joses; “for if we could get one or two o’ them in good condition, they’re the best eating of anything as goes on four legs.”
“But not our sort of sheep?”
“No, of course not. Mountain sheep, my lad, with great horns twisted round so long and thick you get wondering how the sheep can carry ’em, and—there, look!”