“Courage, mes enfants!” he would cry to his struggling team. “Soon we be at Pierre La Roche’s; den plentee feesh for you—bien—Boosh! En avant!”
His words always had a magical effect on the drooping mamelukes. With stubborn determination they bent again to their task, their flagging spirits revivified by the cries of their owner.
Jack turned to Tom after one of these intervals.
“Gee whiz! but I feel like a useless log,” he exclaimed, “lolling here on a pile of soft blankets while those poor beasts are pulling me along at the expense of almost all their strength.”
“It can’t be helped,” rejoined Tom briefly. “No one supposes that you walked into that trap deliberately.”
“It’s just one of those accidents that have been happening to us right along,” rejoined Jack irritably. “We have had nothing but bad luck so far on this trip. It is too bad.”
“I agree with you,” rejoined Tom, “but, after all, whose fault is it?”
“Nobody’s, that I can see.”
“Think again.”
“What’s on your mind?”