And when Hopeful had coughed himself out, and throwing back his head, groaned freely, he made a proposition to him in a dictatorial tone.
"Rest a bit. Sit down."
And they sat down on the damp earth in the shadow of the bushes. Jig-Leg made a cigarette, began smoking it, looked at its glow, and began to speak very deliberately.
"If only we had a home somewhere or other to go to, we might possibly return home...."
"That's true," said Hopeful, wagging his head.
Jig-Leg looked askance at him, and continued: "But as we haven't got a home—we must go on."
"Yes—we must," groaned Hopeful.
"We've no place to go to, so there's no sense talking about it. And the chief cause of it is—we are fools! And what fools we are too!"
The dry voice of Jig-Leg cut through the air, and must have greatly disquieted Hopeful—for he flung himself prone on the ground, sighed, and gurgled oddly.
"And I want something to eat—I've a frightful longing that way," Jig-Leg concluded his drawling, reproachfully resonant speech.