“I think it’s lovely,” Norah said, looking up with shining eyes, “and I’m ever so much obliged. I’ll always keep it.”
“Don’t forget,” the Hermit said, looking down at the flushed face. “And some day, perhaps, you’ll all come again.”
“We must hurry,” Jim said.
They were all back at the lunching-place, and the sight of the sun, sinking far across the plain, recalled Jim to a sense of half-forgotten responsibility.
“It’s every man for his own steed,” he said. “Can you manage your old crock, Norah?”
“Don’t you wish yours was half as good?” queried Norah, as she took the halter off Bobs and slipped the bit into his mouth.
Jim grinned.
“Knew I’d got her on a soft spot!” he murmured, wrestling with a refractory crupper.
Harry and Wally were already at their ponies. Billy, having fixed the load to his satisfaction on the pack mare, was standing on one foot on a log jutting over the creek, drawing the fish from their cool resting-place in the water. The bag came up, heavy and dripping—so heavy, indeed, that it proved the last straw for Billy’s balance, and, after a wild struggle to remain on the log, he was forced to step off with great decision into the water, a movement accompanied with a decisive “Bust!” amidst wild mirth on the part of the boys. Luckily, the water was not knee deep, and the black retainer regained the log, not much the worse, except in temper.
“Damp in there, Billy?” queried Wally, with a grave face.