Bert was pessimistic. "Dunno," he said; "but try it, and see;"—so Sam commenced a regular succession of double shots, which echoed through the wilderness, disturbing its lovely peace horridly. When he had used up his ammunition, he said—"That's wot them blokes in books calls a distress single."
Bert was exceedingly interested. "Oh, is it?" he said.
"It is an' all, my son," said Sam; then happening to find a stray shell in one of his trousers' pockets, he shoved it into his gun and fired it at an isolated poplar, which rather foolishly was trying to grow up alone. "Tyke that, you——!" Sam muttered below his breath. A vindictive gleam quickly fading from his eyes, he turned to Bert and said laughingly: "Jus' fancy if that blinkin' tree 'ad bin the Reverend Docter Robbings—eh?"
"Yes, just fancy," grinned Bert, not at all reluctant to dally with the charitable thought. "But I fail to see what good your bally antics are doing us," he continued, adopting a more serious manner. "There's no one but Trailey about, and he could never find us. The old boy ought to halloo, though."
"Trailey 'alloo!" ejaculated Sam. "Wot d'yer tyke 'im for?—a bloomin' slavey shahtin' fer a cab? 'E'll be too busy eatin'"—then witheringly—"or else gettin' 'is waggin aht of the slough."
"Shut up trying to be funny, Sam! You seem to think this is a laughing matter. It isn't, though. That's the trouble with you unimaginative people. You never realize the gravity of anything. Has it struck you that we might be lost for days?"
"We've bin lawst ever since we left Liverpool, if you arsk me anythink," Sam retorted. "Canada's an 'ome fer lawst Barr-lambs. This 'ere trail ter the bloomin' Colony mus' be strewed wiv 'em, like—like——"
"Like Napoleon's bally army retreating from Moscow—eh, Sam?"
"Blimey, yus."
At length, Bert's superior education asserted itself. His highly-trained intelligence sorted out from a maze of crowding ideas one which for sheer brilliancy was worthy of a better reception.