Clare took her hand with a right good will.
It suddenly occurred to Mary that there was now no occasion for the boy to accompany them. Mary was a woman of few words. “You go home,” she said calmly.
The boy broke into a howl of grief, proving that the delights of the road are much the same to boys, red or white.
“Poor little fellow!” said Clare.
“Too young for travel,” said Mary, impassively. “More trouble than help.”
Clare wished to intercede for him with Stonor, but the trooper shook his head.
“No room in the dug-out,” he said.
Toma Moosa departed along the shore with his arm over his eyes.
Mary was as good as a man on a trip. While Stonor and Clare ate she packed the horses, and Stonor had only to throw the hitch and draw it taut. Clare watched this operation with interest.
“They swell up just like babies when you’re putting their bands on,” she remarked.