“All right,” said Swinton, with a resigned look, “go an’ fetch the boys. But I say, Grummidge, shake hands before you go, I don’t want to carry a grudge agin you into the next world if I can help it. Goodbye.”
“No, no, mate, if that’s to be the way of it I’ll stick to ’ee. D’ye think you could manage to git on my back?”
“I’ll try.”
With much heaving, and many half-suppressed groans from the one, and “heave-ho’s” from the other, Big Swinton was at last mounted on his comrade’s broad shoulders, and the two started for home. It was a long and weary journey, for Grummidge found the road rough and the load heavy, but before night he deposited his old enemy in a bunk in the large room of the settlement and then himself sank fainting on the floor—not, we need scarcely add, from the effect of sentimental feeling, but because of prolonged severe exertion, coupled with loss of blood.
Two days later Grummidge sat by the side of Swinton’s bunk. It was early forenoon, and they were alone—all the other men being out on various avocations.
Blackboy, the large dog, lay asleep on the floor beside them.
Suddenly the dog jumped up, ran to the door, and began to whine restlessly.
“Wolves about, I suppose,” said Grummidge, rising and opening the door.
Blackboy bounded away in wild haste.
“H’m! he seems in a hurry. Perhaps it’s a bear this time. Well, mate, how d’ye feel now?” he added, closing the door and returning to his seat.