“There always have been fights in this part of the country, I should say,” remarked Nick Carter. “Is that a flight of steps I see yonder?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“How far is it away?”
“Three miles.”
“It does not look so far,” declared Nick. “Don’t you think you are stretching it, Jai Singh?”
“It may be a little nearer as the eagle flies,” replied the Hindu. “But the trail is even more than three miles.”
“Gee! This is more like a Marathon than a healthy scrap,” grumbled Patsy. “He talks about three miles as easily as if it were only three feet. This kind of stunt might fit a letter carrier from the Bronx. But I wish we had horses or a motor car.”
Patsy Garvan liked to complain in this way. It was exercise for his tongue and gave his lively mind something to do. His discontent was only skin-deep, however. He did not mean anything, and Nick Carter, who overheard, smiled in amusement.
The path became narrower, so that only one person could walk at a time, and even then with the greatest of care. Then again it widened out, with room for three men abreast without being crowded.
“There are the steps!” exclaimed Nick Carter, as they turned a sharp corner. “We are getting into warm quarters.”