"Do you Englishmen swear in front of your women?" he asked in an awed whisper.
Sam laughed flippantly at the terrible accusation. How was he to know that his remark would offend the delicate susceptibility of the guide, who in his youth had received a very strict religious training? It wasn't Sam's fault that Bermondsey happened to be a hundred years ahead of Eastern Canada in the drift to Naturalism.
"Only when we come 'ome arfter midnight," Sam replied, "an' find dinner ain't ready"—then, noticing a look settling on the other face expressive of blank amazement at the awful degradation of Englishmen, he said: "But don't bovver abaht that, my son. Wipe yer mouf, an' don't ferget we want ter get back ter camp."
"Sure," remarked the perfectly disgusted heeler, unconsciously scratching that part of himself where thought is supposed to be generated; "I ain't forgot. I'm kind of figuring things up in my head." He concentrated desperately for a minute or two.
"Yeah!" he exclaimed suddenly, as an inspiration struck him. "I see, now. If that there hill over there is south at twelve o'clock, it must be over there at three-thirty. That's right, ain't it? And if south is there"—pointing a pulpy finger more or less in that direction—"that willow there must be south-east, eh?" and he indicated a clump of willow which looked very much like thousands more round about. "Keep your eye on them willows, young fellow, while I handle the team."
Sam did as he was told, till a gnat or something flew into one of his eyes, distracting his attention.
"We can't go wrong, now," the guide continued confidently. "By gosh! it's a good thing I remembered that trick with a watch—Giddap there!—ain't it?"
"I wouldn't care if we 'ad some grub," said Sam—"would you? If I was in yore place an' 'ad ter find me way abaht this blinkin' country, I'd ullus tyke plenty of grub along—bacon, an' cawffee, an' tinned 'am, an' pickled warnuts, an' things like that——"
"Get up ter hell out of here, you dod-gasted, flea-bitten ——, where d'you reckon you are taking us to?" muttered the driving prodigy below his breath. These gentle words were intended for one of the antiques in harness in front of him, the remarkable refinement of sentiment being made doubly commendable through being accompanied by a smart flip of the lines, administered with great dexterity and feeling. To Sam he made no reply, but he looked spiteful.
"Look! There's a tent!" shouted Mrs. Trailey presently. Pitched by the side of a "duckpond" was a lone, bell-shaped tent. It came into view over the top of a gently-rolling hill. The guide at once steered the team towards it.