Billy spoke loud enough for the soldiers to hear, as he intended.
“Don’t worry yourself, my kiddy,” laughed Canby; “we are not going to run away from you.”
“There’s a big bunch of sheep and goats, I see, feeding around these hills, but strange to say, we haven’t glimpsed a single human since we came down.”
This observation by Macauley conveyed a fact at which the others, too, had wondered.
“Well,” asserted Billy, “there’s one thing sure, we had more of an air escort flying in here than I’ve seen in many a long ride. The eagles, vultures and hawks must think the war-planes are a new brand of bird come to crowd them out of business.”
“Maybe they thought the planes were geese, seeing Canby’s head sticking out of the rigging.”
“Mac’s jealous,” parried Canby; “he has to keep his ears folded up when we’re flying, and can only bray on the ground.”
“Why don’t you fellows put on the gloves?” suggested Billy.
“I guess they don’t irrigate this country like they used to do in the old days,” observed Henri, who had been taking a little jaunt of inspection toward the overhanging hills; “it’s as dry as a bone, and if you show me a tree I’ll eat it.”
“You’d better save your appetite for the spread we are going to have before we turn in,” said Billy; “our old friend at Damascus sure gave us a load of fig-pasty fixings that we’ll have to get away with before they spoil. And, besides, Buddy, this is a tiny little country, they say, and we may see a better side of it when we go a bit further.”